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Full text of "Memorial day (Decoration day) its celebration, spirit, and significance as related in prose and verse, with a non-sectional anthology of the civil war"

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Our American 


Our Bmcrican 1>oltDae0 









From out our crowded calendar, 
One day we pluck to give; 

It is the day the Dying pause 
To honor those who live. 

McLandburgh Wilson 






Published, March, iqu 



IN harmony with the generous non-sectional spirit 
characterizing our Memorial Day celebration, no dis 
crimination has been shown in this collection between 
the literature of South and North. For our secular 
All Souls Day knows neither North nor South, Blue 
nor Gray. 

The sole discrimination shown has been in selecting 
from all sources the most beautiful poetry and the most 
eloquent prose in this first attempt to reveal, from vari 
ous viewpoints, the true spirit and significance of the 
festival and of the events leading thereto. 

A war anthology is included. 



The Editor and Publishers wish to acknowledge 
their indebtedness to Houghton, Mifflin & Com 
pany; The Century Co.; J. B. Lippincott & Co.; 
Bobbs-Merrill Co.; Dodd, Mead & Co.; Mr. David 
McKay, John Macy, and others who have very 
kindly granted permission to reprint selections from 
works bearing their copyright. 





FOR OUR DEAD Clinton Scollard 3 

AN ODE FOR DECORATION DAY . . . Henry Peterson 4 

Anonymous 7 

MEMORIAL DAY Anonymous 9 



FOR DECORATION DAY Rupert Hughes 13 

LITTLE NAN Anonymous 14 

A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIER . James Whitcomb Riley 16 

DECORATION DAY Richard Watson Gilder 17 

MEMORIAL DAY Louis Imogen Guiney 18 


DECORATION DAY ADDRESS .... James A. Garfield 23 

MEMORIAL DAY Wallace Bruce 27 




Senior Vice- Commander Burr age 31 

ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY . . . Paul Laurence D unbar 31 

THE MONUMENT S MESSAGE . . Charles Elmer Allison 33 

Charles G. Halpine 46 



THE LEGACY OF CONFLICT .... Theodore Roosevelt 47 


ODE FOR DECORATION DAY .... Theodore P. Cook 51 

THE NATION S DEAD Henry Watterson 53 

THE GRAVES OF OUR DEAD . . . Robert G. Ingersoll 55 

William Tecumseh Sherman 56 

DECORATION DAY Thomas Bailey Aldrich 57 




Oliver Wendell Holmes 67 

DIXIE Albert Pike 69 

FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE . . . Walt Whitman 71 

MEN OF THE NORTH John Neal 74 

THE OATH OF FREEDOM .... James Barron Hope 76 

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! Walt Whitman 78 

WAR Sam Walter Foss 79 

THE BRAVE AT HOME . . . Thomas Buchanan Read 81 

THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861 . . . Lucy Larcom 82 

MANASSAS Catherine M. W ar field 85 

THE COUNTERSIGN A Confederate Soldier 86 

TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP George F. Root 88 

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES . Edmund Clarence Stedman 89 

THE DEATH OF SLAVERY . . . William Cullen Bryant 91 

CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD .... Walt Whitman 94 

BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE . . . Walt Whitman 95 

FROM " THE RIVER-FIGHT " . Henry Howard Brownell 95 

IN ACTION Anonymous 101 

FREDERIC KSBURG Thomas Bailey Aldrich 103 

THE LAST FIGHT Lewis Frank Tooker 104 

VICKSBURG Paul Hamilton Hayne 108 


IN DAYS LIKE THESE Thomas H. Stacy 112 

THE TROOP-SHIP SAILS . . Robert W. Chambers 113 




Paul Hamilton Hayne 115 


"How ARE You, SANITARY?" . . Francis Bret Harte 121 

WHAT THE BULLET SANG . . . Francis Bret Harte 122 

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC . . Julia Ward Howe 123 

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC . . Ethel Lynn Beers 125 


KEENAN S CHARGE .... George Parsons Lathrop 128 

LEE TO THE REAR John R. Thompson 131 

RE-ENLISTED Lucy Larcom 135 

REVEILLE Michael O Connor 138 

FARRAGUT William Tuckey Meredith 140 

DRIVING HOME THE Cows . . . Kate Putnam Osgood 142 

SHERIDAN S RIDE Thomas Buchanan Read 144 

" HE LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES "... Frank Lee 146 

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL . . . Elisabeth Akers Allen 148 

George Alfred Townsend 150 


THE CONFLICT ENDED Charles Devens 155 


Francis Bret Harte 156 




James Russell Lowell 162 


How SLEEP THE BRAVE William Collins 167 

Two VETERANS Walt Whitman 167 

OUR DEAD SOLDIERS Francis A. Walker 169 

THE UNKNOWN DEAD Henry Timrod 172 


READING THE LIST Anonymous 174 

DECORATION DAY . . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 176 



OUR COUNTRY S DEFENDERS . . . William McKinley 177 


HEROES OF THE SOUTH .... Paul Hamilton Hayne 179 

William Vaughn Moody 182 

AN ODE Thomas Bailey Aldrich 184 

THE BATTLEFIELD William Cullen Bryant 186 

UNDER THE STARS Wallace Rice 188 

SHERMAN Richard Watson Gilder 190 

OUR HONORED DEAD Henry Ward Beecher 191 

ROLL-CALL Nathaniel Graham Shepherd 192 

A SOLDIER POET Rossiter Johnson 193 

A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER . . . Mary Ashley Townsend 194 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD .... Theodore O Hara 197 

MEMORIALS Herman Melville 201 

ELEGIAC James Gates Percival 201 

VANQUISHED Francis Fisher Browne 203 

THE NATION S DEAD Anonymous 204 

A BALLAD OF HEROES Austin Dobson 206 

THE DEAD COMRADE .... Richard Watson Gilder 208 

THE VOLUNTEER Frank L. Stanton 209 

THE SMALLEST OF THE DRUMS . . . James Buckham 210 

THE VOLUNTEER Elbridge Jefferson Cutler 212 

OUR HEROES John Albion Andrew 213 


THE DEATH OF GRANT Ambrose Bierce 217 

THE BURIAL OF GRANT . . . Richard Watson Gilder 219 

THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS . . James Gates Percival 220 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! .... Walt Whitman 222 


THE BLUE AND THE GRAY . . . Francis Miles Finch 227 

NORTH TO THE SOUTH .... Richard Watson Gilder 229 



OVER THEIR GRAVES . . . Henry Jerome Stockard 233 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY Anonymous 234 


General James Longstreet 236 

REUNITED F. L. Stanton 237 

His NEW SUIT S. E. Kiscr 239 

ENLISTED Eliza Calvert Hall 240 

AGAIN BRETHREN AND EQUALS . James Willis Patterson 241 

THE EAGLE S SONG Richard Mansfield 244 


THE WARSHIP " DIXIE " Frank L. Stanton 247 

CHICKAMAUGA G. T. Ferris 249 



Lawrence Sullivan Ross 251 



Henry B. Carrington 256 

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG . Will Henry Thompson 260 

THE NEW MEMORIAL DAY . . . Albert Bigelow Paine 263 

MEMORIAL DAY 1889 .... Samuel Ellsworth Kiser 264 

LET Us REJOICE TOGETHER . George Augustus Sheridan 265 


THE BRIGADE COMMANDER . . . . 3. W. De Forrest 271 

OF TO-DAY Elisabeth Harrison 309 

THE FIRE REKINDLED .... Claire Wallace Flynn 315 

MEMORIAL DAY 1808 . 326 


DAYS particularly set apart for ceremonies in honor 
of the dead are common to mankind and are well-nigh 
as old as history itself. 

The Greeks performed impressive rites called Zoai, 
at each new grave. These involved various libations 
and offerings of olives and flowers. The head of the 
departed was crowned with a floral wreath, and a 
luxuriance of bloom springing from the grave of the 
dead one was considered a token of his happiness. 

The Romans honored their ancestors in a festival 
called the Parentalia, celebrated from February I3th 
to 2 1 st. During this period the temples were closed, 
and the magistrates were obliged to go without the 
insignia of their office. The last day was called the 
Feralia. Then wine and milk, honey and oil, fruit, 
bread, salt, eggs, and the blood of cattle, pigs, and 
black sheep were brought to the tombs and offered up 
to the shades of the departed. The tomb was deco 
rated with wreaths and flowers, especially roses and 
violets, as the later Latin poets record. 

Our ancestors, the Dihiids, were believers in the 
transmigration of souls ai^d celebrated their memorial 
day about the first of November on the eve of the great 
autumnal festival of thanksgiving to the sun. This was 
the time when their god Saman, the Lord of Death, was 
supposed to call together and pass judgment upon poor 



souls who had been obliged for their sins to inhabit the 
bodies of animals during the year. But, through the 
priests, by means of gifts and incantations, the cruel 
heart of Saman might be softened at this season. 
Even in China and Japan there exists an ancient festi 
val in honor of the dead, known as The Feast of 

Our Memorial Day is simply a secular All Souls 
Day. Like most Christian festivals the latter is only 
a pagan feast in a new form. On that day the Roman 
Catholics endeavor, by prayers and charity, to soften 
the suffering of the poor souls in purgatory. The 
early Christians wrote the names of the dead on the 
diptychs or altar lists and from these the priest read 
the names of those for whom he was to pray that 
God might give them " a place of refreshment, light, 
and peace." 

In the sixth century the Benedictine monasteries used 
to hold a memorial service, at Whitsuntide, for their de 
parted brothers. In 998 Abbot Odilon of Cluny insti 
tuted in all the monasteries in his congregation the 
practice of saying the Mass for the dead on the morrow 
of the Feast of All Saints, and obliging the priests to 
recite in private the matins and lauds from the office 
of the dead. 

It is fascinating to study the customs of this holiday 
in different ages and nations. The account given by 
Walsh 1 is well worth following: 

" In ancient times it was customary for criers, dressed 
in black, to parade the streets, ringing a bell of mourn- 

1 In " Curiosities of Popular Customs." 


ful sound and calling on all good Christians to remem 
ber the poor souls in purgatory and join in prayer for 
their relief. In Southern Italy, notably in Salerno, 
there was another ancient custom, which was put an 
end to in the fifteenth century because it was thought 
to savor of paganism. Every family used to spread a 
table abundantly for the regalement of the souls of its 
dead members on their way from purgatory. All then 
spent the day in church, leaving the house open, and 
if any of the food remained on the table when they 
came back it was an ill omen. Curiously enough, 
large numbers of thieves used to resort to the city at 
this time, and there was seldom any food left to 
presage evil. A story strangely like this is told in 
the Apocryphal book of Bel and the Dragon. 

" All Souls Day possesses a peculiar sanctity for all 
who have ever felt the poetry which underlies the 
services of the Catholic Church. In the toil and moil 
of life we too easily forget the dead, or remember them 
only with a sense of loss instead of gratitude. Hence 
it seems well that once in the year an opportunity 
should be afforded for dwelling on them in a different 
way, for recalling all that endeared them to us, which 
often means all that has lent our past life emotional 
value, for drawing close to them in the spiritual bonds 
which according to the Catholic Church are not severed 
by death, and for offering them that pious meed of 
prayer which, the same authority guarantees, will 
shorten their stay in purgatory and open out to them 
the sooner the final glory and peace of paradise. 

" In nothing does the strange contrast of feeling ap 
pear more strongly than in the different ways in which 


this day is celebrated in countries or districts which are 
equally Roman Catholic in their profession of faith. 
In all, the religious services are substantially the same ; 
Masses for the dead are read, the * Dies Irse is sung, 
and the prayer Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and 
let perpetual life shine upon them rises from thou 
sands of hearts as well as lips. But outside the church 
nothing can be more unlike than the bearing of the 

" In France the Jour des Morts, as it is generally 
known, is a decorous, pathetic, and beautiful occa 
sion among all believers. For two or three weeks 
before the day arrives the shop windows and the 
news-venders kiosks are laden with wreaths and gar 
lands of immortelles, some in their natural color, some 
dyed blue, pink, or purple. On All Saints the people 
stream to the cemeteries. Thousands of people, thou 
sands of wreaths. The cemeteries are one mass of 
brilliant color, of moving throngs, for not even the re 
motest corner of the potter s field is neglected. Above 
the dust of the pauper, as well as of the prince, is 
left some token of remembrance. Pains are taken that 
no graves of friends and relatives are neglected, lest 
their spirits should have their feelings hurt during their 
visit by perceiving this neglect. The children, espe 
cially, are encouraged to delight in the thought of pleas 
ing the little dead brother, sister, or friend by making 
the tiny mounds that mark their resting-places gay and 

" The higher classes behave with the quietude and 
self-restraint of well-bred people everywhere. But 
down among the common people are manifested the 


emotions of the heart, sad remembrance, re-awakened 
grief, love outlasting its object. 

" It is true that even into the midst of this pathetic 
ceremony the Parisians sometimes manage to obtrude 
politics. On November 2, 1868, a strange scene was 
enacted in the cemetery of Montmartre. The Empire 
was then at the height of its unpopularity. A large 
number of its enemies came bearing flowers to seek 
for the tomb of Alphonse Baudin, the representative 
of the people who had died at the barricades on De 
cember 2, 1851. For seventeen years this had been 
reported lost. But thousands of eager searchers soon 
located it, and it was covered with a pyramid of im 
mortelles and other flowers. Revolutionary speeches 
were made, and there were some conflicts with the 
police. Next morning some of the liberal journals 
opened a subscription-list for a monument to Baudin. 
But the movement was stopped by the Imperial Govern 
ment, and several of the editors were fined. 

" Scenes of this sort, however, are infrequent, and 
occur only among unbelievers. Now contrast the 
Frenchman with the Southern Italian. 

" Nothing can be more grewsome, incongruous, and 
flippant to the Northern mind than the All Souls 
celebrations in Naples. The Saturday Review of 
January 7, 1888, gives an account of these which is as 
true to-day as it was then: 

In Naples All Souls Day is regarded as a holiday, 
and the visit of the families to the churchyard for the 
purpose of decorating the graves degenerates into a 
pleasure-party. Metal garlands are chiefly used for 
the purpose ; and, though they are more durable, they 


hardly possess the charm of real leaves and flowers. 
They may, however, be regarded as symbolic of the 
behavior, if not always of the feelings, of those who 
offer them. On the way to the cemetery a decent 
sobriety is observed, and the various families usually 
remain separate; but on the return general sociability 
and mirth are the rule. The roadside is lined with 
inns, which are better filled on this than any other 
day in the year, and from all of them the sound of 
singing and dancing may be heard. Indeed, it is by 
no means uncommon for a young Neapolitan to say to 
a friend, " We are going to visit our mother s grave 
to-morrow, and on our way back we shall stop at such 
or such an inn; " which means, " If you like to come 
there, you can dance with my sister." To an English 
man no celebration of the day seems a better thing. 
If we forget our dead, we do not make their memory 
the excuse for a jollification. 

In the villages where the day is observed with a 
certain seriousness, grotesque incidents are apt to mar, 
for the stranger at least, the sense of mournful calm 
which the religious services excite. In one of the 
churches of Ravello, for example, a disgusting effigy is 
placed before the high altar, instead of the shrouded 
structure in which, during the funeral service, the coffin 
is placed. The very skill with which it is made renders 
it the more repulsive. The fallen cheeks and livid hue 
are rendered with what seems, in the half-light, a 
frightful realism; and it is clad in the court dress of 
some former century, in a suit embroidered with gold, 
red stockings, and pointed shoes. Or it is perhaps a 
real mummy? The writer did not pause to inquire. 


In fact, the South Italian seems to be utterly destitute 
of the feeling which prompts us to conceal, as far as 
possible even from our imaginations, all that is revolt 
ing in death. 

" In France the Jour des Morts is kept utterly dis 
tinct from La Toussaint, or All Saints Day, which 
occurs on November ist. This is also true of Italy. 
But in many other European Catholic countries the 
decorating of graves begins on All Saints Day, either 
because it is looked upon as the Eve of All Souls , or 
from the pious and complimentary hope that the dead 
in whom the celebrant is interested may have already 
passed out of the penitential flames of purgatory into 
the company of the blessed. In a Catholic Alpine vil 
lage, as soon as the Mass has been heard on All Saints , 
the women of the family busy themselves with weaving 
wreaths of evergreens, into which any flowers that are 
still hardy enough to blossom are eagerly worked. In 
the afternoon these are carried to the churchyard and 
laid upon the graves with almost silent reverence ; and 
in the evening a lamp is placed at the foot of the last 
resting-place of every departed friend. At such a 
time the cemetery is a strange sight, with the gar 
lands, the lights, and the groups of mourners kneel 
ing, often in the snow." 

Scarcely less curious than this survey of Memorial 
Day manners is Brand s * account of the very general 
custom of strewing flowers upon the graves of the 

" Gough, in the Sepulchral Monuments, speaking of 

1 In " Popular Antiquities." 


the Feralia, says : The tombs were decked with flow 
ers, particularly roses and lilies. The Greeks used the 
amaranth and polyanthus (one species of which re 
sembles the hyacinth), parsley, myrtle. The Romans 
added fillets or bandeaux of wool. The primitive 
Christians reprobated these as impertinent practices/ 
St. Ambrose, in his Funeral Oration on the Death of 
Valentinian, has these words : I will not sprinkle his 
grave with flowers, but pour on his spirit the odor of 
Christ. Let others scatter baskets of flowers: Christ 
is our lily, and with this will I consecrate his relics/ 
And St. Jerome, in his Epistle to Pammachius, upon 
the death of his wife, tells us: Whilst other husbands 
strewed violets, roses, lilies, and purple flowers upon 
the graves of their wives, and comforted themselves 
with such-like offices, Pammachius bedewed her ashes 
and venerable bones with the balsam of alms/ But 
in Prudentius s time they had adopted these customs, 
and they obtain, in a degree, in some parts of our own 
country, as the garland hung up in some village 
churches in Cambridgeshire, and other counties, after 
the funeral of a young woman, and the inclosure of 
roses round graves in the Welsh churchyards testify. 
" In Malkin s Scenery, Antiquities, and Biography 
of South Wales/ we read : The bed on which the corpse 
lies is always strewed with flowers, and the same cus 
tom is observed after it is laid in the coffin. They 
bury much earlier than we do in England ; seldom later 
than the third day, and very frequently on the second. 
The habit of filling the bed, the coffin, and the room 
with sweet-scented flowers, though originating probably 
in delicacy as well as affection, must of course have a 


strong tendency to expedite the progress of decay. It 
is an invariable practice, both by day and night, to 
watch a corpse ; and so firm a hold has this supposed 
duty gained on their imaginations, that probably there 
is no instance upon record of a family so unfeeling and 
abandoned as to leave a dead body in the room by itself 
for a single minute in the interval between the death 
and burial. Such a violation of decency would be 
remembered for generations. The hospitality of the 
country is not less remarkable on melancholy than on 
joyful occasions. The invitations to a funeral are very 
general and extensive, and the refreshments are not 
light, and taken standing, but substantial and pro 
longed. Any deficiency in the supply of ale would be 
as severely censured on this occasion as at a festival. 
The grave of the deceased is constantly overspread 
with plucked flowers for a week or two after the funeral. 
The planting of graves with flowers is confined to the 
villages and the poorer people. It is perhaps a prettier 
custom. It is very common to dress the graves on 
Whitsunday and other festivals, when flowers are to 
be procured; and the frequency of this observance is 
a good deal affected by the respect in which the de 
ceased was held. My father-in-law s grave in Cow- 
bridge Church has been strewed by his surviving serv 
ants every Sunday morning for these twenty years. It 
is usual for a family not to appear at church till what 
is called the month s end, when they go in a body, and 
then are considered as having returned to the common 
offices of life. 

" In the same work, in notes on an Elegy written by 
Mason, we are told again that it is a very ancient and 


general practice in Glamorgan to plant flowers on the 
graves ; so that many churchyards have something like 
the splendor of a rich and various parterre. Besides 
this, it is usual to strew the graves with flowers and 
evergreens, within the church as well as out of it, 
thrice at least every year, on the same principle of 
delicate respect as the stones are whitened. No flowers 
or evergreens are permitted to be planted on graves but 
such as are sweet-scented: the pink and polyanthus, 
sweet-williams, gilliflowers and carnations, mignon 
ette, thyme, hyssop, camomile, and rosemary, make up 
the pious decoration of this consecrated garden. Turn 
soles, peonies, the African marigold, the anemone, and 
many others I could mention, though beautiful, are 
never planted on graves, because they are not sweet- 
scented. It is to be observed, however, that this 
tender custom is sometimes converted into an instru 
ment of satire; so that, where persons have been dis 
tinguished for their pride, vanity, or any other unpopu 
lar quality, the neighbors whom they may have offended 
plant these also by stealth upon their graves. The 
white rose is always planted on a virgin s tomb. The 
red rose is appropriated to the grave of any person 
distinguished for goodness, and especially benevolence 
of character. In the Easter week most generally the 
graves are newly dressed, and manured with fresh 
earth, when such flowers or evergreens as may be 
wanted or wished for are planted. In the Whitsun 
tide holidays, or rather the preceding week, the graves 
are again looked after, weeded, and otherwise dressed, 
or, if necessary, planted again. It is a very common 
saying of such persons as employ themselves in thus 


planting and dressing the graves of their friends, that 
they are cultivating their own freeholds. This work 
the nearest relations of the deceased always do with 
their own hands, and never by servants or hired per 
sons. Should a neighbor assist, he or she never takes, 
never expects, and indeed is never insulted by the offer 
of any reward, by those who are acquainted with the 
ancient custom. 

" Speaking of the church of Llanspyddid, on the 
south side of the Uske, surrounded with large and 
venerable yew-trees, Malkin observes : The natives of 
the principality pride themselves much on these ancient 
ornaments of their churchyards ; and it is nearly as gen 
eral a custom in Brecknockshire to decorate the graves 
of the deceased with slips either of bay or yew, stuck in 
the green turf, for an emblem of pious remembrance, 
as it is in Glamorganshire to pay a tribute of similar 
import in the cultivation of sweet-scented flowers on 
the same spot. 

" Gough, in Sepulchral Monuments, says : Aubrey 
takes notice of a custom of planting rose-trees on the 
graves of lovers by the survivors, at Oakley, Surrey, 
which may be a remain of Roman manners among 
us ; it being in practice among them and the Greeks to 
have roses yearly strewed on their graves. 

" In the Female Mentor, 1798, ii., we read: Inde 
pendently of the religious comfort which is imparted 
in our burial service, we sometimes see certain grati 
fications which are derived from immaterial circum 
stances ; and, however trivial they may appear, are not 
to be judged improper, as long as they are perfectly 
innocent. Of this kind may be deemed the practice in 


some country villages of throwing flowers into the 
grave ; and it is curious to trace this apparently simple 
custom up to the politest periods of Greece and Rome. 
Virgil, describing Anchises grieving for Marcellus, 

Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring, 
Mix d with the purple roses of the spring: 
Let me with funeral flow rs his body strew : 
This gift, which parents to their children owe, 
This unavailing gift at least I may bestow. " 

It is eminently fitting that this custom of decorating 
the graves of our dead with flowers should play the 
leading part it does in the celebration of the Western 
Memorial Day. For the goddess Aphrodite was no 
more truly sea-born than this day was flower-born. It 
happened thus : Two years after the close of the Civil 
War the New York Tribune printed a paragraph 
simply stating that " the women of Columbus, .Miss., 
have shown themselves impartial in their offerings 
made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flow 
ers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the 
National soldiers." 

Whereupon the North thrilled with tenderness and 
Francis Miles Finch was inspired to write his moving 
lyric " The Blue and the Gray " which has become the 
credo of the festival. 

In a famous address Chauncey M. Depew related 
the occurrence with felicity : " When the war was over 
in the South, where under warmer skies and with 
more poetic temperaments symbols and emblems are 
better understood than in the practical North, the 
widows, mothers, and the children of the Confederate 


dead went out and strewed their graves with flowers ; 
at many places the women scattered them impartially 
also over the unknown and unmarked resting-places of 
the Union soldiers. As the news of this touching 
tribute flashed over the North it roused, as nothing 
else could have done, national amity and love and 
allayed sectional animosity and passion. Thus out of 
sorrows common alike to North and South came this 
beautiful custom." 

The incident, however, produced no practical results 
until in May, 1868, Adjutant-General N. P. Chipman 
suggested to National Commander John A. Logan, of 
the Grand Army of the Republic that their organization 
should inaugurate the custom of spreading flowers bn 
the graves of the Union soldiers at some uniform 
time. General Logan immediately issued an order 
naming the 3oth day of May, 1868, " for the purpose 
of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the 
graves of comrades who died in defense of their coun 
try during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie 
in almost every city, village, or hamlet churchyard in 
the land. . . . It is the purpose of the commander-in- 
chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope that 
it will be kept up from year to year while a survivor 
of the war remains to honor the memory of the 

The idea spread rapidly. Legislature after legis 
lature enacted it into law until the holiday has become 
a legal one J in all states except Arkansas, Missouri, 
Montana, New Mexico, Texas, and West Virginia. 

i According to the table in " Deems Holy Days and Holi 


Throughout the North and West the festival is very 
generally celebrated on the 3Oth of May. But April 
26th is observed in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and 
Mississippi; May loth in North and South Carolina; 
May 3Oth in Virginia; and June 3d in Louisiana.. 

Decoration Day, the earlier name of the festival, 
was soon felt to be too superficial to express the pro 
found ideas and emotions to which the occasion is dedi 
cated, just as we now feel that Arbor Day is a name 
quite inadequate for the holiday devoted to the great 
principle of conservation. But, unlike the name of the 
latter, Decoration Day was felicitously changed to 
Memorial Day. 

This festival, says an unknown writer in the Illus 
trated American for June 21, 1890, " is not merely a 
holiday in the modern acceptation of the word, it real 
izes its etymological significance as a holy day. It is our 
All Saints Day, sacred to the memory of the glorified 
dead who consecrated themselves to their country, were 
baptized in blood, were beatified and canonized as 
martyrs for the right. It is well that, in the hurry and 
press of our times, when the higher soul within us is 
choked and stifled by the more sordid cares of the 
hour, by the selfish struggle for place and pelf, we 
should pause for a period to dwell upon the memory of 
the illustrious dead who gave their lives for their coun 
try, and who typify that higher and truer Americanism 
which lies within us still, dormant and latent indeed, 
yet ready to spring again to the surface whenever the 
needs of the country issue a new call to arms. It is 
well that we should do them honor which honors our 
selves in the doing. But it is well, also, that we should 


remember what was their true mission and their higher 
success: that they fought not through enmity to a 
gallant and mistaken foe, but through love for the 
Union, which recognized no North and no South. 
That Union they have restored, and union means 
peace, harmony, mutual good will. If they had merely 
pinned together with bayonets the two divided sec 
tions of the country, they had fought and bled and 
fallen in vain. Northern hatred for the South, South 
ern hatred for the North, is disloyalty, is treason in 
deed to the Union which they re-established. A few 
political 4 leaders leaders who are far in the rear 
of public sentiment have sought to make political capi 
tal out of the fact that Southerners cherish the memory 
of the heroes who fought on their side, and have 
raised statues to commemorate them. But we who 
remember with pride the achievements of our soldiers 
are proud to acknowledge that they had foemen worthy 
of their steel, and that a common country gave birth 
to both. The arbitrament of the sword has settled 
forever the questions over which no other tribunal had 
jurisdiction, and the nation went through the throes 
of a civil war for the benefit of North and South alike. 
To many of us this reunion seems to symbolize the 
sublime side of the Anglo-Saxon nature and yearly 
to renew our faith that after our next great internecine 
strife is over, when capital and labor have once and 
for all locked arms in their perhaps inevitable struggle, 
America may vindicate her inherent nobility then as 
now in 

" Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray." 






Flowers for our dead ! 

The delicate wild roses, faintly red; 

The valley lily beds, as purely white 

As shines their honor in the vernal light; 

All blooms that be 

As fragrant as their fadeless memory ! 

By tender hands entwined and garlanded, 

Flowers for our dead! 

Praise for our dead ! 

For those that followed and for those that led, 

Whether they felt death s burning accolade, 

When brothers drew the fratricidal blade, 

Or closed undaunted eyes 

Beneath the Cuban or Philippine skies ! 

While waves our brave, bright banner overhead, 

Praise for our dead ! 

Love for our dead ! 

O hearts that droop and mourn, be comforted ! 
The darksome path through the abyss of pain, 
The final hour of travail not in vain ! 


For freedom s morning smile 
Broadens across the seas from isle to isle. 
By reverent lips let this fond word be said: 
Love for our dead ! 



Bring flowers, to strew again 

With fragrant purple rain 

Of lilacs, and of roses white and red, 

The dwellings of our dead our glorious dead ! 

Let the bells ring a solemn funeral chime, 

And wild war-music bring anew the time 

When they who sleep beneath 

Were full of vigorous breath. 
And in their lusty manhood sallied forth, 

Holding in strong right hand 

The fortunes of the land, 

The pride and power and safety of the North! 
It seems but yesterday 
The long and proud array 
But yesterday when e en the solid rock 
Shook as with earthquake shock 
As North and South, like two huge icebergs, ground 
Against each other with convulsive bound, 
And the whole world stood still 

To view the mighty war, 

And hear the thunderous roar, 
While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill. 


Alas ! how few came back 

From battle and from wrack! 

Alas ! how many lie 

Beneath a Southern sky, 

Who never heard the fearful fight was done, 

And all they fought for, won! 

Sweeter, I think, their sleep, 

More peaceful and more deep, 

Could they but know their wounds were not in 

vain ; 

Could they but hear the grand triumphal strain, 
And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread. 
Ah! let us trust it is so with our dead 
That they the thrilling joy of triumph feel, , 
And in that joy disdain the foeman s steel. 

We mourn for all, but each doth think of one 

More precious to the heart than aught beside 
Some father, brother, husband, or some son, 

Who came not back or, coming, sank and died; 
In him the whole sad list is glorified! 
" He fell fore Richmond in the seven long days 

When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed 

And lies there," one pale widowed mourner says, 

And knows not most to triumph or to grieve. 
" My boy fell at Fair Oaks," another sighs ; 
" And mine at Gettysburg," his neighbor cries, 

And that great name each sad-eyed listener thrills. 
I think of one who vanished when the press 
Of battle surged along the Wilderness, 

And mourned the North upon her thousand hills. 


gallant brothers of the generous South ! 
Foes for a day, and brothers for all time, 

1 charge you by the memories of our youth, 
By Yorkstown s field and Montezuma s clime, 

Hold our dead sacred, let them quietly rest 

In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best! 

Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive, 

And o er their graves a broidered mantle weave; 

Be you as kind as they are, and the word 

Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird, 

And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake 

Responsive to your kindness, and shall make 

Our peace the peace of brothers once again, 

And banish utterly the days of pain. 

And ye, O Northmen ! be ye not outdone 

In generous thought and deed. 
We all do need forgiveness, every one; 

And they that give shall find it in their need. 
Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger s grave, 

Who died for a lost cause; 
A soul more daring, resolute, and brave 

Ne er won a world s applause! 
(A brave man s hatred pauses at the tomb.) 
For him some Southern home was robed in gloom, 
Some wife or mother looked, with longing eyes, 
Through the sad days and nights, with tears and 

Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair. 
Then let your foeman s grave remembrance share; 
For pity a high charm to Valor lends, 
And in the realms of Sorrow all are friends. 


Yes, bring fresh flowers, and strew the soldier s grave, 

Whether he proudly lies 

Beneath our Northern skies, 

Or where the Southern palms their branches wave. 
Let the bells toll, and wild war-music swell, 

And for one day the thought of all the past 

Full of those memories vast 
Come back and haunt us with its mighty spell! 
Bring flowers, then, once again, 
And strew with fragrant rain 
Of lilacs, and of roses white and red, 
The dwellings of our dead. 


Decoration Day Hymn 


Cover them over with beautiful flow rs, 
Deck them with garlands those brothers of ours, 
Lying so silent by night and by day, 
Sleeping the years of their manhood away. 
Give them the meed they have won in the past ; 
Give them the honors their future forecast ; 
Give them the chaplets they won in the strife ; 
Give them the laurels they lost with their life. 



Cover them over, yes, cover them over, 
Parent and husband, brother and lover, 
Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours, 
Cover them over with beautiful flow rs. 

Cover the hearts that have beaten so high. 
Beaten with hopes that were doomed but to die; 
Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray ; 
Hearts that have yearned for the home far away. 
Once they were glowing with friendship and love, 
Now their great souls have gone soaring above ; 
Bravely their blood to the nation they gave, 
Then in her bosom they found them a grave. 


Cover the thousands who sleep far away, 
Sleep where their friends cannot find them to-day, 
They, who in mountain and hillside and dell, 
Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell. 
Softly the grass blades creep round their repose; 
Sweetly above them the wild flowret blows; 
Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o erhead, 
Whispering prayers for the patriot dead. 


When the long years have rolled slowly away, 
E en to the dawn of earth s funeral day; 
When, at the angel s loud trumpet and tread, 
Rise up the faces and forms of the dead, 


When the great world its last judgment awaits; 
When the blue sky shall fling open its gates, 
And our long columns march silently through, 
Past the Great Captain for final review. 


Blessings for garlands shall cover them over, 
Parent and husband, brother and lover, 
God will reward those dead heroes of ours, 
Cover them over with beautiful flow rs. 



Memorial Day, with its sad and sacred memories, 
has again come. And as each new one makes its ad 
vent, we recall anew the great and tragic events that 
made the occasion for the day. Time in his rapid 
flight has borne us on till we are thirty-one years from 
the close of the great Civil War, in which thousands of 
lives were sacrificed and billions of treasure expended 
to save our country from dismemberment. The asper- 
ities and alienations engendered by the great struggle 
between freedom and slavery have largely passed 
away; and those who participated as soldiers on both 
sides, who are still living, fraternize with each other j 
as brothers and fellow-citizens of one common coun 
try, on whose glorious banner is inscribed forever, 


E pluribus unum. It is meet that those who sacrificed 
and died in the struggle, or who sacrificed and have 
since died, should be remembered and honored for 
the invaluable service they have rendered their coun 
try and humanity. Let the graves of the dead soldiers 
be decorated with flowers and wreaths of laurel, and 
the memory of their noble deeds revived anew in 
oratory and song. 



(On a recent Memorial Day, in New York City, while the 
veterans marched in the streets, processions of children, May 
parties postponed by a tardy spring, mingled with the crowds 
on the walks and in the parks.) 

Between the cliffs of brick and stone, 
Hoarse, like a river clamoring down 

A canon gorge, the quenchless moan 
Of being echoes through the town. 

The lurid streets with life are loud. 

There is no hush of holiday 
Upon the million-throated crowd 

Where old men march and children play. 

For, see, the desert springs to light, 
Like fragile fairies roamed away 

From magic woods, all clad in white, 
The children keep the feast of May. 

the Century Magazine. 


Up the stern streets, through park and square, 
They seek the shaded plots of green, 

Dear vaporous angels of the air, 

Sweet phantoms from a mythic scene. 

It is not real. Such elfin youth 

To blossom mid this barren stone ! 
The bleak, loud city is the truth. 

The vision of a dream is flown. 

And yet it stays. The people part 
To let the white processions through. 

Rude, slandered walls, your hidden heart 
Is pure, if such were born in you. 

And ndw with slow tap to the drag 

Of aged feet, the steady drum 
Sounds where a cross street cleaves the crag, 

And down the park the old troops come. 

Strange interweaving of old gray 
With delicate child white, all designed 

On the tense fabric of to-day 
To-day with elder days entwined. 

These ancient remnants tottering by 

Were comrades to a host of boys, 
Brave young battalions thrown to die, 

Now white like those new-budded joys. 

Slow-footed age, time-conquered, bowed, 
We march as once you marched. Through you 


We new recruits, this heedless crowd, 
Are veterans, are victors, too. 

White flame of childhood, we would throw 
Our lives to shield you from a breath. 

Pass on, old men, to peace, for, lo! 

Life blooms among the ranks of death. 



Memorial Day is consecrated to the soldiers; it is 
dedicated to patriotism ; around this sacred day cluster 
precious memories of our fallen brave. Over the 
silent chambers of our sleeping comrades we wreathe 
garlands of flowers symbols of our love and grati 
tude. These graves are the Nation s shrine, the 
Mecca to which patriots journey to renew their de 
votion to the cause for which these patriots died. 
The fruits of their victories are a united country. 
This is a sacred heritage purchased by their valor 
and sealed by their blood. History is their encomium. 
Battlefields attest their courage. 

" Sleep, heroes, sleep ; 
Your deeds shall never die." 





But do we truly mourn our soldier dead, 

Or understand at all their precious fame 

We that were born too late to feel the flame 

That leapt from lowly hearths, and grew, dispread, 

And, like a pillar of fire, our armies led? 

Or you that knew them do the long years tame 

The memory-anguish ? Are they more than name ? 

Oh, let no stinted grief profane their bed ! 

Let tears bedew each wreath that decks the lawn 

Of every grave ! and raise a solemn prayer 

That their battalioned souls be joined to fare 

Dim roads, beyond the trumpets of the dawn, 

Yet perfumed, somehow, by our flowers that heap 

The peaceful barracks where their bodies sleep. 



And now the long, long lines of the Nation s graves 

Grow longer ; and the venerate slopes reveal 

The fresh spring turf gashed thick with tombs to seal 

Away another army of our braves. 

So hang black garlands from the architraves 

Of all the capitols. The dying peal 

Of bugles wails their final Taps. So kneel 

And give the dead the due their virtue craves. 


Thank God, the olden sinew still is bred ; 
The milk of American mothers still is sweet ; 
The sword of Seventy-six is sharp and bright ; 
The Flag still floats unblotted with defeat ! 
But ah the blood that keeps its ripples red, 
The starry lives that keep its field alight; 
The pangs of women and the tears they ve bled. 

The Lord enlarge our spirits till we feel 

The greatness of these spirits upward fled. 

A kind of genius it has been that fed 

Them strength to be, above all. passions, leal. 

They put aside the velvet for the steel, 

Left love, and hope, and ease at home ; and sped 

To the wilderness of war and every dread. 

Their blood is mortar for our commonweal ; 

Their deeds its decoration and its boast. 

So mix with dirges, triumph ; smiles, with tears. 

Make sorrow perfect with exultant pride 

Our vanished armies have not truly died ; 

They march to-day before the heavenly host; 

And history s veterans raise a storm of cheers, 

As the Yankee troops with glory armed and shod- 

In Grand Review swing past the throne of God. 



The wide gates swung open, 
The music softly sounded, 

And loving hands were heaping the soldiers graves 
with flowers; 


With pansies, pinks, and roses, 
And pure gold-hearted lilies, 

The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring 
time bowers ; 

When down the walk came tripping 
A wee, bare-headed girlie, 

Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was 

grave and sweet ; 

Her small brown hands were crowded 
With dandelions yellow 

The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to 

O, many smiled to see her, 
That dimple-cheeked wee baby, 

Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission 

bound ; 

And, pausing oft an instant, 
Let fall from out her treasures 

A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound. 

The music died in silence, 
A robin ceased its singing, 

And in the fragrant stillness a birdlike whisper grew, 
So sweet, so clear and solemn, 
That smiles gave place to tear-drops: 

" Nan loves oo, darlin soldier ; an here s a f ower 
for oo." 




A monument for the Soldiers! 

And what will ye build it of? 
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, 

Outlasting the Soldiers love? 
Can ye glorify it with legends 

As grand as their blood hath writ 
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine 

To the outermost verge of it? 

And the answer came: We would build it 

Out of our hopes made sure, 
And out of our purest prayers and tears, 

And out of our faith secure: 
We would build it out of the great white truths 

Their death hath sanctified, 
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, 

And their faces ere they died. 

And what heroic figures 

Can the sculptor carve in stone? 
Can the marble breast be made to bleed, 

And the marble lips to moan? 
Can the marble brow be fevered ? 

And the marble eyes be graved 
To look their last, as the flag floats past, 

On the country they have saved ? 

1 From " Green Fields and Running Brooks," 1892, Bobbs- 
Merrill Co. 


And the answer came: The figures 

Shall all be fair and brave, 
And, as befitting, as pure and white 

As the stars above their grave ! 
The marble lips, and breast, and brow 

Whereon the laurel lies, 
Bequeath us right to guard the flight 

Of the old flag in the skies ! 

A monument for the Soldiers ! 

Built of a people s love, 
And blazoned and decked and panoplied 

With the hearts ye build it of ! 
And see that ye build it stately, 

In pillar and niche and gate, 
And high in pose as the souls of those 

It would commemorate ! 



She saw the bayonets flashing in the sun, 

The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles 


She saw. the tattered banners falling 
About the broken staffs, as one by one 
The remnant of the mighty army passed ; 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


And at the last 

Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done. 

She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet 
As the long line swept round the crowded square; 
She heard the incessant hum 
That filled the warm and blossom-scented air, 
The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum, 
The happy laugh, the cheer, Oh glorious and meet 
To honor thus the dead, 
Who chose the better part 
And for their country bled ! 

The dead ! Great God ! she stood there in the street, 
Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart 
While far away 

His grave was decked with flowers by strangers hands 



O day of roses and regret, 
Kissing the old graves of our own ! 
Not to the slain love s lovely debt 
Alone ; 

But jealous hearts that live and ache 
Remember, and while drums are mute, 
Beneath your banners bright outbreak, 
Salute : 


And say for us to lessening ranks 

That keep the memory and the pride, 

On whose thinned hair our tears and thanks 


Who from their saved Republic pass, 
Glad with the Prince of Peace to dwell: 
Hail, dearest few ! and soon, alas, 





Extract from an Oration delivered at Arlington, Va., 
May 30, 1868 

I am oppressed with a sense of the impropriety of 
uttering words on this occasion. If silence is ever 
golden, it must be here beside the graves of fifteen 
thousand men, whose lives were more significant than 
speech, and whose death was a poem, the music of 
which can never be sung. With words we make prom 
ises, plight faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be 
kept ; plighted faith may be broken ; and vaunted virtue 
be only the cunning mask of vice. We do not know 
one promise these men made, one pledge they gave, 
one word they spoke ; but we do know they summed 
up and perfected, by one supreme act, the highest vir 
tues of men and citizens. For love of country they ac 
cepted death, and thus resolved all doubts, and made 
immortal their patriotism and their virtue. For the 
noblest man that lives, there still remains a conflict. 
He must still withstand the assaults of time and for 
tune, must still be assailed with temptations, before 
which lofty natures have fallen; but with these the 
conflict ended, the victory was won, when death 
stamped on them the great seal of heroic char- 



acter, and closed a record which years can never blot. 

I know of nothing more appropriate on this occa 
sion than to inquire what brought these men here ; 
what high motive led them to condense life into an 
hour, and to crown that hour by joyfully welcoming 
death ? Let us consider. 

Eight years ago this -was the most unwarlike na 
tion of the earth. For nearly fifty years no spot in 
any of these states had been the scene of battle. 
Thirty millions of people had an army of less than 
ten thousand men. The faith of our people in the 
stability and permanence of their institutions was like 
their faith in the eternal course of nature. Peace, lib 
erty, and personal security were blessings as common 
and universal as sunshine and showers and fruitful 
seasons ; and all sprang from a single source, the old 
American principle that all owe due submission and 
obedience to the lawfully expressed will of the major 
ity. This is not one of the doctrines of our political 
system it is the system itself. It is our political 
firmament, in which all other truths are set, as stars 
in Heaven. It is the encasing air, the breath of the 
Nation s life. Against this principle the whole weight 
of the rebellion was thrown. Its overthrow would 
have brought such ruin as might follow in the phys 
ical universe, if the power of gravitation were de 
stroyed, and 

" Nature s concord broke, 
Among the constellations war were sprung, 
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign 
Of fiercest opposition, in mid-sky 
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound." 


The Nation was summoned to arms by every high 
motive which can inspire men. Two centuries of 
freedom had made its people unfit for despotism. They 
must save their Government or miserably perish. 

As a flash of lightning in a midnight tempest re 
veals the abysmal horrors of the sea, so did the flash 
of the first gun disclose the awful abyss into which 
rebellion was ready to plunge us. In a moment the 
fire was lighted in twenty million hearts. In a mo 
ment we were the most warlike Nation on the earth. 
In a moment we were not merely a people with an 
army we were a people in arms. The Nation was in 
column not all at the front, but all in the array. 

I love to believe that no heroic sacrifice is ever lost ; 
that the characters of men are molded and inspired 
by what their fathers have done; that treasured up 
in American souls are all the unconscious influences 
of the great deeds of the Anglo-Saxon race, from 
Agincourt to Bunker Hill. It was such an influence 
that led a young Greek, two thousand years ago, when 
musing on the battle of Marathon, to exclaim, " the 
trophies of Miltiades will not let me sleep ! " Could 
these men be silent in 1861 ; these, whose ancestors 
had felt the inspiration of battle on every field where 
civilization had fought in the last thousand years? 
Read their answer in this green turf. Each for him 
self gathered up the cherished purposes of life its 
aims and ambitions, its dearest affections and flung 
all, with life itself, into the scale of battle. 

And now consider this silent assembly of the dead. 
What does it represent? Nay, rather, what does it 
not represent? It is an epitome of the war. Here 


are sheaves reaped in the harvest of death, from every 
battlefield of Virginia. If each grave had a voice 
to tell us what its silent tenant last saw and heard on 
earth, we might stand, with uncovered heads, and hear 
the whole story of the war. We should hear that one 
perished when the first great drops of the crimson 
shower began to fall, when the darkness of that first 
disaster at Manassas fell like an eclipse on the Na 
tion; that another died of disease while wearily wait 
ing for winter to end; that this one fell on the field, 
in sight of the spires of Richmond, little dreaming 
that the flag must be carried through three more years 
of blood before it should be planted in that citadel of 
treason; and that one fell when the tide of war had 
swept us back till the roar of rebel guns shook the dome 
of yonder Capitol, and re-echoed in the chambers of 
the Executive Mansion. We should hear mingled 
voices from the Rappahannock, the Rapidan, the 
Chickahominy, and the James ; solemn voices from the 
Wilderness, and triumphant shouts from the Shenan- 
doah, from Petersburg, and the Five Forks, mingled 
with the wild acclaim of victory and the sweet chorus 
of returning peace. The voices of these dead will 
forever fill the land like holy benedictions. 

What other spot so fitting for their last resting place 
as this, under the shadow of the Capitol saved by their 
valor? Here, where the grim edge of battle joined; 
here, where all the hope and fear and agony of their 
country centered; here let them rest, asleep on the 
Nation s heart, entombed in the Nation s love! 




I come with chaplet woven new 

From May-day flowers, to fade away; 

You come to-night, brave boys in blue, 
With record bright, to last for aye. 

Yet all I have I gladly bring 

With heart and voice at your command ; 
I only wish the words I sing, 

Were worthier of your noble band 

A living wreath of lasting fame 

To match your deeds that fill the world. 

Ah, lyric vain! each hero s name 
Is on your banners folds unfurled. 

Those stars are there in setting blue, 
Because you answered to the call. 

We bring no eulogy on you ; 
You honor us you won it all. 

And what avails our word of praise 
To you who stand as in a dream 

On guard in rugged mountain ways, 
In camp by many a sluggish stream ? 

Among the clouds on Lookout Height, 
With Hooker down in Tennessee; 

Again the boys " mit Sigel fight," 
You march with Sherman to the sea. 


Port Hudson, Vicksburg, New Orleans, 
Antietam, Shiloh, Malvern Hill 

A hundred fields, a thousand scenes 
The moistened lens of memory fill. 

On fields with Grant, whose grave is white 
With flowers from many a distant State, 

Through many a long and weary night 
You learned with him to toil and wait. 

And there with Hancock, soldier true, 
At Gettysburg you held the line; 

No nobler heart beneath the blue, 
For him the nation s flowers entwine. 

Brave captains, noble comrades, rest! 

No bugle-note or war s alarms 
Disturb your sleep on Nature s breast 

That silent camp of grounded arms. 

Your ranks are thinner, boys, to-day, 
Than just one little year ago; 

On many a brow a touch of gray 
Anticipates the winter s snow. 

And fewer comrades, year by year, 
Shall gather summer s kindly bloom, 

And fewer brothers drop the tear 
Upon the soldier s sacred tomb. 

The twenty years have left their trace 
Since you returned the homeward route; 

Twice twenty more your ranks efface ; 
The boys will all be mustered out, 


Who kept the faith and fought the fight; 

The glory theirs, the duty ours ; 
They earned the crown, the hero s right, 

The victor s wreath a crown of flowers. 


Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages 
of time, testify to the present or to the coming gen 
erations, that we have forgotten, as a people, the cost 
of a free and undivided Republic. 

General John A. Logan. 

We honor our heroic and patriotic dead by being 
true men, as true men by faithfully fighting the bat 
tles of our day as they fought the battles of their day. 

David Gregg. 

The supporters of religion gave their lives for a 
principle. These martyrs of patriotism gave their 
lives for an idea. 

Schuylcr Colfax. 


As a basis for permanently satisfactory results of 
the war, we should recognize the claims of justice and 
equal rights to all classes and sections, a fair appor 
tionment of public burdens and benefits, with special 
privileges and exemptions to none. Careful and prac 
tical teachings along this line will be a patriotic work. 

Judge James W . Lapsley. 


Memorial Day, in my opinion, is one of the most 
significant and beautiful occasions of the year. It 
shows the sentiment of the people toward those who 
gave their lives for a good cause, and it teaches a les 
son in patriotism which is without a parallel. Me 
morial Day cannot be too tenderly revered by old and 
young, by those who participated in one of the Na 
tion s great struggles, or by those who simply know 
of it as history. Our common country each year is 
paying a greater tribute of respect to the soldiers, liv 
ing and dead, and it is my hope that this rule may be 
expanded still more in the years to come. 




Why may not the men themselves, who died be 
neath their country s flag, be now among their homes 
to which their last living thoughts were turned, and 
here with us to-day? We do not know, but can we 
not in hope believe, with a solid, substantial, reasonable 
belief and hope, that our heroes now stand about us, 
unseen and unheard, as we join to do honor to their 
memories ? The naked human eye is not made to dis 
close the presence of the myriad forms that exist 
about us, and the human ear is not attuned to note 
the solemn symphonies of the music of the spheres. 




We pay the tribute of respect and reverence to the 
gallant men who sacrificed their lives to the perpetu 
ation of the Union, and who now lie in common graves 
marked " unknown." It was fitting at this season of 
vernal bloom, when nature is joyful with life, that our 
thoughts should turn to those who gave their lives, as 
dear to them as ours to us, and that their memory 
should be honored and reverenced. 



Done are the toils and the wearisome marches, 

Done is the summons of bugle and drum. 
Softly and sweetly the sky overarches, 

Sheltering a land where Rebellion is dumb. 
Dark were the days of the country s derangement, 

Sad were the hours when the conflict was on, 
But through the gloom of fraternal estrangement 

God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn. 
O er the expanse of our mighty dominions, 

Sweeping away to the uttermost parts, 
Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pinions, 

Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts. 

1 From " Lyrics of Lowly Life," by P. L. Dunbar, Dodd, 
Mead & Co., 1898. 


Ah, but this joy which our minds cannot measure 

What did it cost for our fathers to gain ! 
Bought at the price of the heart s dearest treasure, 

Born out of travail and sorrow and pain ; 
Born in the battle where fleet Death was flying, 

Slaying with saber-stroke bloody and fell; 
Born where the heroes and martyrs were dying, 

Torn by the fury of bullet and shell. 
Ah, but the day is past: silent the rattle, 

And the confusion that followed the fight. 
Peace to the heroes who died in the battle, 

Martyrs to truth and the crowning of Right! 

Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal, 

Out of the dust and the dimness of death, 
Burst into blossoms of glory eternal 

Flowers that sweeten the world with their breath. 
Flowers of charity, peace, and devotion 

Bloom in the hearts that are empty of strife ; 
Love that is boundless and broad as the ocean 

Leaps into beauty and fullness of life. 
So, with the singing of paeans and chorals, 

And with the flag flashing high in the sun, 
Place on the graves of our heroes the laurels 

Which their unfaltering valor has won! 




In front of Manor Hall, Yonkcrs, N. Y., in which 
city this " Message " was delivered, stands the 
Soldiers Monument 

The polished granite in front of old Manor Hall, 
combines strength and grace. " The quarry has blos 
somed into the air." Stone and bronze stand out un 
der the stars, defying the storms and the seasons. 
Stable and beautiful they will stand, saluting the far 
future, when ours is a buried generation, sleeping " the 
iron sleep." A great English poet, whose pen is a 
gilded scepter, says there are sermons in stones. The 
granite lips of yonder Color-Bearer are mute, yet 
they speak to the spirit s finer ear. All of those 
memorial stones, from pedestal to carved capital and 
surmounting standard, have a voice. We bring you 
the Monument s Message. 

The costly column is reared on American Soil, and 
America is the garden of the Lord great in extent 
and resources, great in history, great in destiny. Im 
perial Rome " policed the world." Her empire ex 
tended 3,000 miles in one direction, and 2,000 in an 
other. As to extent of territory, this Nation is a 
modern Rome. 

" What shall we say of a Republic of eighteen states, 
each as large as Spain, or one of thirty states, each as 
large as Italy, or one of sixty states, each as large as 


England and Wales? Take five of the six first-class 
Powers of Europe, Great Britain and Ireland, France, 
Germany, Austria, and Italy; then add Spain, Por 
tugal, Switzerland, Denmark, and Greece. Let some 
greater than Napoleon weld them into one mighty em 
pire, and you could lay it all down west of the Hud 
son River once and again and again three times." 

Of the states and territories west of the Mississippi, 
only three are as small as all New England. Idaho, 
if laid down in the East, would touch Toronto, Can 
ada, on the north, Raleigh, N. C, on the south, while 
its southern boundary line is long enough to stretch 
from Washington City to Columbus, Ohio. The great 
est measurement of Texas is nearly equal to the 
distance from New Orleans to Chicago, or from Chi 
cago to Boston. 

Of the resources of the country the half has not 
been told. We have hundreds of thousands more 
square miles of arable land than China, and China 
supports a population of 360,000,000. Transfer all 
of the people of the United States to the one State of 
Texas, and the population thus concentrated would not 
be much denser, if any, than the population of Ger 
many to-day. Who shall estimate aright the value of 
American fields and forests, mines and mountains, 
lakes and rivers nature s highways orchards and 
gardens, flocks and herds, and her broad prairie with 
their miles and miles of waving harvests undulating 
like ocean billows? 

Providence hid this fair land from the old world 
for many centuries. It was to be " the cradle of an 
illustrious history." True, the mound builders were 


here, but they left mounds, not molding influences. 
The Indians were here ; they left only arrow-heads and 
musical names for our lakes, rivers, and mountains. 
The Northmen came about the year 1,000; they left 
only a foot-print. The tide of European emigration 
was not permitted to follow the Northmen. Well it 
was for humanity that the Divine Hand kept that tide 
back, for then was the midnight of the dark ages. 
" Sometimes the bells in the church steeples were not 
heard, for the sound of trumpets and drums." Co 
lumbus embarked in 1492, but his ships carried Spanish 
influences. The great navigators followed the birds 
of the air in their flight. The God of Nations made 
those birds pilots to guide Spanish ships away from 
these shores. Spain gave form to Mexico and South 

God works with two hands. While He was hiding 
this rich land, He was shaping the men who should 
shape its institutions. Before He gave America to the 
world, He gave the translated Bible and the printing 
press to Europe ; English, Scotch, Scotch-Irish, Dutch, 
French, and other illustrious emigrants of like type 
were the " Creators of Moral America." They were 
seventeenth century men. Into that superb century 
were providentially poured the influences of previous 
centuries. For hundreds of years Europe was at 
school, learning statecraft and religion. By the 
translation of the Bible, " the lowly English roof was 
lifted to take in heights beyond the stars." It was 
from underneath that roof the Pilgrim Fathers came 
to Plymouth Rock. The Indian s salutation was, not 
" Welcome, Spaniard," but " Welcome, Englishman," 


which, being interpreted, signified, although the dusky 
savage did not understand it, " Welcome, the open 
Bible and love of equal rights." Yes, the Monument 
is reared on American soil, and America, vast in ex 
tent, rich in resources and possibilities, was provi 
dentially reserved for freemen and freedom s temple. 

Firm upon its granite pedestal stands yonder shapely 
shaft. For us it shall symbolize, by its graceful 
strength, the American Republic, stable and healthful 
among the nations of the earth. That group of war 
riors in bronze represent no holiday soldiers. They 
stand for heroes in flesh and blood for stern vet 
erans whose fortitude and valor protected the Com 
monwealth. They recall those years when a shot fired 
at the old flag aroused the anger of a great people. 
Who can describe those historic years? 

The heavens were suddenly black. Fierce eagles of 
war flew across the lurid clouds. The awful storm 
rolled thunders along the sky. Reverberating, they 
shook the Atlantic coast and the banks of the Mis 
sissippi. They crashed over Antietam, Vicksburg, and 
Gettysburg. Forked lightnings played among the 
clouds around Lookout Mountain. Fire ran along upon 
the ground in Tennessee, and in Virginia swamps 
and rivers were turned to blood. It was the Nation s 
midnight. The death angel was abroad with un 
sheathed sword. There was a great cry in the land, 
for there was not a house among half a million where 
there was not one dead. Four years the storm raged. 
The iron hail rattled incessantly, prostrating armed 
men, and crushing woman s tender heart. It was a 
deluge of blood. Then muttering thunders ceased; 


the clouds broke away, and out of the blue sky a dove 
came, and lo ! in her mouth was an olive leaf. More 
than a quarter of a century has passed. Peace still 
abides. " Over the cannon s mouth the spider weaves 
his web." But while mighty people are busied with 
great enterprises, they do not forget cannot forget 
the brave men who purchased peace by their valor 
and blood. 

We recall with gratitude profound and peculiarly 
tender, the private soldier and sailor. Men praise 
the brave commanders, and they do well; but what 
could generals have accomplished without the heroes 
in the ranks? With swift zeal the rank and file a 
great host sprang to arms. They gathered from near 
and far. " The earth trembled under their tread like 
a floor beaten with flails." " All the avenues of our 
great cities ran with rivers of burnished steel." We 
can hear again their measured tramp, tramp, tramp, 
and their lusty song, " We are coming, Father Abra 
ham, three hundred thousand more." Hark! Vet 
erans, hear ye not again your comrades singing around 
the flickering fires which lighted up their noble faces, 
" We are tenting to-night on the old camp-ground." 
Listen ! Hear again the battle hymn of the Republic, 
how it echoes down the corridors of the years, and will 
echo until time is no more : 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 

retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment 


Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet: 
Our God is marching on. 


In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 

When the war began thousands of young men, the 
flower of American youth, were looking out of col 
lege halls upon a future bright with professional hon 
ors. They flung books aside and seized rifles. They 
became " History s Graduates." Hundreds of thou 
sands of young Americans were anticipating a future 
replete with the profits and emoluments which reward 
business genius and integrity. Straightway they aban 
doned cherished life plans in order to defend free insti 

Did the officer love his home? With an equal ten 
derness the private soldier loved his. He knew, should 
a bullet prostrate him, it would shatter the strong 
staff upon which the aged father had hoped to lean in 
his declining years. It gave him a heart-break to see 
his mother s pale face and quivering lip as he kissed 
her good-by, holding in one arm his rifle, and with 
the other tenderly embracing her trembling form. 
There were " tears in his voice " when he said fare 
well, perhaps a final farewell, to the fair friend with 
whom he had hoped to stand at the marriage altar. 
Thousands of husbands and fathers realized that their 
enlistment might leave wives widowed, and little chil 
dren fatherless. When the private soldier rushed into 
the battle s fire and smoke, he knew that, after vic 
tories were won, the names of officers would be her 
alded over the land ; but should he fall, the type would 
print after his name only one word " missing," or 


" wounded," or " dead." And when that one dread 
word should be read in the distant Northern home, 
loved faces would " grow white instantly, as if 
sprinkled with the dust of ashes by an unseen hand." 
Yet for the old banner the soldier made the sacrifice. 
As a lonely vidette he kept faithful watch in the dark 
ness, while death lurked near, " with foot of velvet 
and hand of steel." He helped drag heavy cannon 
through deep mud; he trudged weary miles on forced 
marches, and endeavored to sleep, when hungry and 
cold, on the wet ground. Or he tossed on a hospital 
cot with a " band of pain around his brow." And 
now, we twine a laurel wreath for that brow. Thou 
sands of those brave men fell, not knowing what would 
be the result of the conflict. Other thousands were 
permitted to return and enjoy for a period the bless 
ings they purchased for their countrymen. Then they, 
too, fell by the wayside, weary with the march of life. 
They fought for freedom, not for fame, yet honor 
claims them as her own : 

" On Fame s eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards with solemn round 
The bivouac of the dead." 

Who can estimate the value of their splendid 
services? The Union Army demonstrated the stabil 
ity of representative government. In the estimation 
of Europe the American Republic was an experiment. 
Would it go to pieces by the earthquake shock of civil 
war ? Jealous kings said " Yes," but when the red 
lips of Grant s cannon thundered " No ! " thrones 


trembled. Should a government of and for and by 
the people perish from the earth? 

The army demonstrated the solidity of the Nation s 
credit. At one period the war expenses aggregated 
$2,000,000 a day, but victories inspired confidence, and 
many of the soldiers poured their own silver and gold 
into the coffers of the Nation to sustain the govern 

Soldiers of the Union, what shall a grateful people 
render you in return for your priceless services? 
Surely the government should care for the aged and 
the crippled veteran. A wealthy nation should not 
permit a soldier s deserving widow or orphan to suf 
fer want. But we are confident that your sentiments 
are voiced by this declaration. The return for their 
services which veterans desire is a determination on 
the part of their fellow-citizens to protect faithfully 
the free institutions the Grand Army fought to pre 

Underneath yonder polished pillar is a granite die 
inscribed with patriotic sentences. For us that let 
tered die shall symbolize popular education, which sus 
tains the Republic. Books are better than bayonets. 
Giant truths are mightier than giant powder. The 
strongest fortresses are school-houses. The mightiest 
standing army in the world is the great host of Amer 
ican school-children. The seal of the Board of Edu 
cation in this city is a pictured pen lying across a 
broken sword. The pen is mightier than the sword. 
The pens of Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, and Hamil 
ton broke the sword of tyranny in 1776. The pens of 
Webster, Sumner, Phillips, Garrison, Beecher, Seward, 


and Lincoln broke the swords of secession and slavery. 
The men in bronze find firm footing on yonder let 
tered block of granite. They carry thinking weapons. 
No man " scoops out the brains " of the American 
civilian or soldier. He has the Bible, and thinks for 
himself. He has the ballot, and governs himself. The 
only scepter to which he bows is the scepter of truth. 

This is a nation of readers a nation of sovereigns. 
" We live under a government of men and morning 
newspapers. The talk of the sidewalk to-day is the 
law of the land to-morrow." Who shapes public 
thought is the uncrowned king. His pen is his scepter. 
Public schools and newspapers are the people s uni 
versity. When Louis Napoleon was in this country he 
expressed surprise because he saw a farmer reading a 
newspaper. Germany has about 5,500 newspapers, 
Great Britain about 5,000. France about 2,000, Italy 
about 1,400, Asia exclusive of Japan about 850, 
Russia about 800, and the United States more than 
15,000. The enemy of the American public school 
system is the enemy of the Commonwealth. If you 
would realize how unstable governments are without 
public schools, read the history of Mexico and of 
South America. Taught by costly experience, they 
have now introduced public education. 

Thousands of the youth in our public schools come 
from homes where they learn little or nothing about the 
history and the spirit of American institutions. Let 
the public schools teach them that history, and inspire 
them with that spirit. Teach the public school youth, 
that it is a high honor to be able to say, " I am an 
American citizen." Let them hear the shot which the 


embattled farmers fired at Lexington " the shot that 
was heard around the world." Let them catch the 
peals of the old Liberty bell and the spirit of Inde 
pendence Day. Let them hear the nightwatchman in 
Philadelphia calling out : " Ten o clock and Cornwallis 
taken." Let them hear Washington s soldiers singing 
on the banks of the Hudson : " No King but God." 
Let them hear again and again the shining story of the 
valor and the victories of the men who, uniformed in 
Heaven s livery, fought with Hooker, Hancock, Mead, 
Thomas, Foote, Farragut, Kilpatrick, with the chival 
rous Kitching, and Fremont, the free-hearted. Teach 
them that when they arrive at manhood s estate, they 
should never absent themselves from the polls, pre 
ferring private gain to the welfare of city, state, or 
nation. Let them always vote and vote for principle. 

Underneath yonder carved die are four massive 
granite blocks, a solid base, on which the stable struc 
ture rests, as the American Republic rests secure upon 
the solid foundations of a true Christianity. Palsied 
be the vandal hands which would attempt to remove 
those tons of granite, and substitute as a base rotten 
timber. Palsied be the hands which would attempt 
to remove the Bible, the Sabbath, the Church, and the 
Christian home, and substitute, as a foundation for 
our Republic, infidelity, anarchy, and the rotten saloon ! 

Gladstone, the illustrious Englishman, said to an 
eminent American : " Talk about questions of the day, 
there is but one question, and that is the Gospel. It 
can and will correct everything needing correction. 
All men at the head of great movements are Christian 
men. During the many years I was in the Cabinet I 


was brought into association with sixty master minds, 
and all but five of them were Christians. My only 
hope for the world is the bringing the human mind into 
contact with Divine revelation." This emphasizes the 
teachings of American patriots. Above all the 
clamor of Castle Garden statesmen we hear the calm 
voices of the fathers and preservers of the Republic. 
One of these patriotic fathers, who was a member of 
the convention assembled to draft the Constitution of 
the United States, when moving that the proceedings 
be opened with prayer, addressed the President in 
these memorable words : " I have lived, sir, a long time, 
and the longer I live the more convincing proofs I see 
of the truth that God governs in the affairs of men; 
and if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without His 
notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without 
His aid?" 

To a trusted friend who visited him during the dark 
days of the Civil War, President Lincoln said, with 
emotion : " I do not doubt, I never doubted for a mo 
ment, that our country would finally come through 
safe and undivided. But do not misunderstand me. 
I do not know how it can be. I do not rely on the 
patriotism of our people, though no people have rallied 
around their king as ours have rallied around me. I 
do not trust in the bravery and devotion of the boys 
in blue. God bless them ! God never gave a prince 
or a conqueror such an army as He has given me. 
Nor yet do I rely on the loyalty and skill of our gen 
erals, though I believe we have the best generals in 
the world at the head of our armies. But the God of 
our fathers, who raised up this country to be a refuge 


and the asylum of the oppressed and down-trodden of 
all nations, will not let it perish now. I may not live 
to see it," and he added, after a pause " I do not 
expect to see it, but God will bring us through safe." 

What a noble company of our youthful citizens is 
assembled here on this broad platform. That in com 
ing years, as they pass and repass the Monument, 
they may be reminded of the truths here spoken, 
permit me to address them a few words. Young 
Americans, when you have reached mature years, and 
our lips are dust, the children of the future will look 
at yonder graceful granite, and will ask, " What mean 
these stones ? " You will tell them how you saw with 
your own eyes the soldiers of the Union represented 
by those stern bronze warriors. You will speak of 
successive Memorial Days, when you saw veteran sol 
diers embroider with fragrant flowers the mounds 
made sacred by the dust of their comrades. You will 
not forget to strew flowers upon their graves. You 
will interpret for the future generations the message 
of those voiceful stones. 

That you may the more distinctly remember their 
message, we would have you see on the gray granite 
four shining gold letters. On the solid base, which 
symbolizes the foundation of our Republic, a true 
Christianity, we would have you see the letter F, 
standing for Faith in God. On the lettered die, which 
symbolizes a solid education, we would have you see 
the letter L, standing for Learning. As the polished 
shaft, by its massive strength and grace, symbolizes the 
Republic, stable and beautiful among the nations, we 
would have you see affixed to it the letter A, standing 


for America. And as our flag is always associated 
with renown, we would have you see on that granite 
standard the gold letter G, reflecting the rays of the 
morning, and standing for Glory. Remember to tell 
the children of the future that those memorial stones 
symbolize Faith, Learning, America, and Glory. It 
will not be difficult for you to remember this message, 
and to bear it to the future, because those initial gold 
letters spell the word FLAG. 

Soldiers of the Union, I have now discharged the 
duty you assigned me. We bring you gratitude, and 
congratulations gratitude for arduous and illustrious 
services ; congratulations that a kind Providence merci 
fully spared your lives for some good purpose. A 
thousand fell at your side, and ten thousand at your 
right hand, but He covered you with His feathers. 
Through the iron hailstones He brought you safe to 
greet your loved ones, to receive the plaudits of your 
fellow-citizens, and to enjoy the prosperity of the 
Commonwealth. Each of your wears the honored 
title, " A Soldier of the Union." Soon you will be 
gathered to your fathers. Yonder memorial will per 
petuate your honor. 

Surely we voice your sentiments when we proclaim 
that the granite Standard-Bearer represents no citizen 
who defends organized wrong. He represents neither 
infidel nor anarchist. Nor does he stand for the 
citizen who fails to distinguish between license to 
do wrong, and liberty to do right the only true lib 
erty. He does not represent the citizen who with one 
hand holds up the flag, and with the other hand tears 
its pure folds to tatters by defending a traffic which 


shatters the hearth-stone, smites the smile from the 
happy face of a sweet child, and murders the soul 
for which the Son of God shed His blood. But yon 
der Standard-Bearer does represent, in his massive 
strength, the loyal American who stands firm for the 
Bible, the Sabbath, the Church, the Home; for Solid 
Learning, for Union and Freedom, for the Main 
tenance of Private and Public Credit, and for Peace on 
Earth. His sword symbolizes the freeman s weapons 
the pen, the pure ballot, and the keen Damascus 

So long as the bed-rock principles of the fathers are 
maintained, the Republic itself will continue to stand, a 
monument to freedom, stable and beautiful, and seen 
by the whole world. Because he realizes this, the 
American citizen, while holding his Nation s ensign 
in defense of it, and of the granite principles of which 
it is the glorious symbol, lays his good right hand 
upon the hilt of his sword. 

This, sir, as we interpret it, is the Monument s Mes 



Comrades known in marches many, 
Comrades tried in dangers many, 
Comrades bound by memories many, 
Brothers ever let us be. 


Wounds or sickness may divide us, 
Marching orders may divide us, 
But whatever fate betide us, 
Brothers of the heart are we. 

Comrades known by faith the clearest, 
Tried when death was near and nearest, 
Bound we are by ties the dearest, 

Brothers evermore to be. 
And, if spared, and growing older, 
Shoulder still in line with shoulder, 
And with hearts no thrill the colder, 

Brothers ever we shall be. 

By communion of the banner, 
Crimson, white, and starry banner, - 
By the baptism of the banner, 

Children of one Church are we. 
Creed nor faction can divide us, 
Race nor language can divide us ; 
Still, whatever fate betide us, 

Children of the Flag are we. 



The captains and the armies who, after long years 
of dreary campaigning and bloody, stubborn fighting, 
brought to a close the Civil War, have left us even 


more than a reunited realm. The material effect of 
what they did is shown in the fact that the same flag 
flies from the Great Lakes to the Rio Grande, and all 
the people of the United States are richer because they 
are one people and not many, because they belong to 
one great nation, and not to a contemptible knot of 
struggling nationalities. 

But besides this, besides the material results of the 
Civil War, we are all, North and South, incalculably 
richer for its memories. We are the richer for each 
grim campaign, for each hard-fought battle. We are 
the richer for valor displayed alike by those who 
fought so valiantly for the right, and by those who, no 
less valiantly, fought for what they deemed the right. 
We have in us nobler capacities for what is great and 
good because of the infinite woe and suffering, and be 
cause of the splendid ultimate triumph. 



" Wave the flag once more before my eyes ! " said 
a dying color-bearer as he found himself sinking into 
the last sleep. " The dear old flag never touched the 
ground," said another soldier sinking on the ramparts 
of Wagner. To them the starry folds of the bunting 
they bore were an emblem of an undivided country, a 
symbol of glory and honor dearer to them than life it 
self. Such is the inspiring influence of intelligent, 


heroic loyalty. It is far nobler than mere physical 
hardihood, purer than the selfish sentiment of personal 
friendship, and therefore a more enduring and trans 
forming power. Keep, then, the flag of the nation 
waving before our eyes; in other words, make con 
spicuous the principles of which it is the emblazonry, 
fealty to truth, to honor, to liberty and law. Let par 
tisan zeal and mere personal aggrandizement be forgot 
ten in the pursuit of the highest aims. Let the spirit 
of Abraham Lincoln be ours, who, in 1858 standing 
at Alton, where Love joy had fallen a martyr to free 
dom said, " Think nothing of me ; take no thought 
for the political fate of any man whatsoever, but come 
back to the truths that are in the Declaration of Inde 
pendence. You may do anything with me you choose, 
if you will but heed these sacred principles. You may 
not only defeat me for the Senate, but you may take 
me and put me to death! I am nothing. Judge Doug 
las is nothing; but do not destroy that immortal em 
blem of humanity the Declaration of Independence." 

It is with prophetic ken when, at Philadelphia, he re 
asserts his fealty to this same supreme law: "If this 
country cannot be saved without giving up that prin 
ciple, I was about to say I would be assassinated on the 
spot!" Then he repeated again his calm, serious, in 
telligent consecration to the cause of Liberty and 
Union in these closing words : " I have said nothing 
but what I am willing to live by, and, if it be the 
pleasure of the Almighty God, to die by!" 

That was heroism, lofty, sublime, godlike heroism. 
It was grander far than the heroism of the battlefield, 
where mere brutal courage plays an important part ; 


where revenge is sometimes fired by pain and sight of 
blood; where there is the wild enthusiasm of numbers 
massed under the lead of magnetic men; where there 
are thrilling battle-songs poured forth from bearded 
lips, joined with clang of cymbals, blare of trumpets, 
beat of drum ; and where, amid booming cannon, ring 
ing saber, and rattling shell, the soldier forgets fatigue, 
pain, even life itself, in the delirium of the hour. This 
defiance of death is heroic; this valor, audacity, and 
gallantry, worthy of praise; but it ranks lower than 
this serene quietude of soul that is born of humble, 
holy faith, which sustains one without these added sup 

Our hero-dead are lying in a thousand burial-places 
from Maine to Louisiana. Peace reigns. But is there 
not still an unended contest of ideas? Are not the 
great tutelar forces of a Christian civilization in 
earnest conflict with hostile influences ? Have we been 
wholly victorious over partisan hatred, the prejudice 
of caste, of color, and of clan? Can any party show 
a wholly clean record? Its leaders a purely disinter 
ested and patriotic purpose? Are there no ominous 
tendencies at work in the rapid growth of our material 
wealth and in the importation of alien and destructive 
elements ? 

We have scattered our floral tributes to-day over 
the graves of the patriotic dead. These frail me 
mentos of affection will soon wither, but let not the 
memory of these martyrs fail to inspire in us a 
purer, holier life! The roll-call brings to mind their 
faces and their deeds. They were faithful to the end. 
The weary march, the bivouac, the battle are still re- 


membered by the survivors. But your line, comrades, 
is growing slenderer every year. One by one you will 
drop out of the ranks, and other hands may ere long 
strew your grave with flowers as you have done to-day 
in yonder cemetery. When mustered in the last grand 
review, with all the veterans and heroes of earth, may 
each receive with jubilant heart the Great Com 
mander s admiring tribute " Well done ! " and become 
with Him partaker of a felicity that is enduring and 
triumphant ! 



They sleep so calm and stately, 
Each in his graveyard bed, 

It scarcely seems that lately 
They trod the fields blood-red, 
With fearless tread. 

They marched and never halted, 
They scaled the parapet, 

The triple lines assaulted, 
And paid without regret 
The final debt. 

The debt of slow accruing 
A guilty nation made, 

The debt of evil-doing, 
Of justice long delayed, 
Twas this they paid. 


On fields where Strife held riot, 
And Slaughter fed his hounds, 

Where came no sense of quiet, 
Nor any gentle sounds, 
They made their rounds. 

They wrought without repining, 
Till, weary watches o er, 

They passed the bounds confining 
Our green, familiar shore, 

And now they sleep so stately, 
Each in his graveyard bed, 

So calmly and sedately 
They rest, that once I said : 
" These men are dead. 

They know not what sweet duty 
We come each year to pay, 

Nor heed the blooms of beauty, 
The garland gifts of May, 
Strewn here to-day. 

The night-time and the day-time, 
The rise and set of sun, 

The winter and the May-time, 
To them whose work is done, 
Are all as one." 

Then o er mine eyes there floated 
A vision of the Land 


Where their brave souls, promoted 
To heaven s own armies, stand 
At God s right hand. 

From out the mighty distance 

I seemed to see them gaze 
Back on their old existence, 

Back on the battle-blaze 
Of war s dread days. 

" The flowers shall fade and perish," 

In larger faith spake I, 
" But these dear names we cherish 

Are written in the sky, 
And cannot die." 



From an Address delivered at the National Cemetery, 
Nashville, Tenn., Decoration Day, 

We are assembled, my countrymen, to commemorate 
the patriotism and valor of the brave men who died 
to save the Union. The season brings its tribute to 
the scene; pays its homage to the dead; inspires the 
living. There are images of tranquillity all about us ; 
in the calm sunshine upon the ridges ; in the tender 
shadows that creep along the streams; in the waving 


grass and grain that mark God s love and bounty; in 
the flowers that bloom over the many many graves. 
There is peace everywhere in this land to-day. 

" Peace on the open seas, 
In all our sheltered bays and ample streams, 
Peace where er our starry banner gleams, 

And peace in every breeze." 

The war is over. It is for us to bury its passions 
with its dead ; to bury them beneath a monument raised 
by the American people to American manhood and the 
American system, in order that " the nation shall, un 
der God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the 
government of the people, by the people, and for the 
people, shall not perish from the earth." 

The Union is indeed restored, when the hands that 
pulled that flag down come willingly and lovingly to 
put it up again. I come with a full heart and a steady 
hand to salute the flag that floats above me my flag 
and your flag the flag of the Union the flag of the 
free heart s hope and home the star-spangled banner 
of our fathers the flag that, uplifted triumphantly 
over a few brave men, has never been obscured, 
destined by the God of the universe to waft on its 
ample folds the eternal song of freedom to all man 
kind, emblem of the power on earth which is to ex 
ceed that on which it was said the sun never went 

The hundred of thousands who fell on both sides 
did not die in vain. The power, the divine power, 
which made for us a garden of swords, sowing the land 
broadcast with sorrow, will reap thence for us, and 


for the ages, a nation truly divine; a nation of free 
dom and of free men ; where tolerance shall walk hand 
in hand with religion, while civilization points out to 
patriotism the many open highways to human right 
and glory. 



As we cover the graves of the heroic dead with 
flowers, the past rises before us like a dream. Again 
we are in the great struggle. We hear the sounds of 
preparation the music of the boisterous drums 
the silver voices of heroic bugles. We hear the ap 
peals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women, 
and the flushed faces of men ; we see all the dead 
whose dust we have covered with flowers. We 
lose sight of them no more. We are with them when 
they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see 
them apart from those they love. 

We see them as they inarch proudly away, under 
the flaunting flags, keeping time to the wild music of 
war marching down the streets of the great cities, 
through the towns, and across the prairies, to do and 
to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one 
and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, 
in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. 
We stand guard with them in the wild storm and un 
der the quiet stars. We see them pierced with balls 
and torn with shells, in the trenches by the forts, and 


in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become 
iron with nerves of steel. We are at home when the 
news reaches us that they are dead. We see the 
maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the 
silvered head of the old man bowed with the last 

Those heroes are dead. They sleep under the sol 
emn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and 
the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows 
of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, 
each in the windowless place of rest. Earth may run 
red with other wars they are at peace. In the midst 
of battle, in the roar of the conflict, they found the 
serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the sol 
diers, living and dead cheers for the living, tears for 
the dead. 



From Decoration Day Address, New York, May 
30, 1878 

It is related of General Scott that when asked, in 
1861, the probable length of the then Civil War, he 
answered, " The conflict of arms will last five years ; 
but will be followed by twenty years of angry strife, 
by the belligerent non-combatants. 

Wars are usually made by civilians, bold and de 
fiant in the forum; but when the storm comes, they 


go below, and leave their innocent comrades to catch 
the " peltings of the pitiless storm." Of the half- 
million of brave fellows whose graves have this day 
been strewn with flowers, not one in a thousand had 
the remotest connection with the causes of the war 
which led to their untimely death. I now hope and 
beg that all good men, North and South, will unite in 
real earnest to repair the mistakes and wrongs of the 
past ; will persevere in the common effort to make this 
great land of ours to blossom as the garden of Eden ! 
I invoke all to heed well the lessons of this " Decora 
tion Day," to weave each year a fresh garland for the 
grave of some beloved comrade or hero, and to rebuke 
any and all who talk of civil war, save as the " last 
dread tribunal of kings and peoples." 



From Ponkapog Papers 

How quickly Nature takes possession of a deserted 
battlefield and goes to work repairing the ravages of 
man! With invisible magic hand she smooths the 
rough earthworks, fills the riflepits with delicate 
flowers, and wraps the splintered tree-trunks with her 
fluent drapery of tendrils. Soon the whole sharp out 
line of the spot is lost in unremembering grass. Where 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


the deadly rifle-ball whistled through the foliage, the 
robin or the thrush pipes its tremulous note; and 
where the menacing shell described its curve through 
the air, a harmless crow flies in circles. Season after 
season the gentle work goes on, healing the wounds 
and rents made by the merciless enginery of war, un 
til at last the once hotly contested battle-ground differs 
from none of its quiet surroundings, except, perhaps, 
that here the flowers take a richer tint and the grasses 
a deeper emerald. 

It is thus the battle lines may be obliterated by Time, 
but there are left other and more lasting relics of the 
struggle. That dinted army saber, with a bit of 
faded crepe knotted at its hilt, which hangs over the 
mantelpiece of the " best room " of many a town and 
country house in these States, is one; and the graven 
headstone of the fallen hero is another. The old 
swords will be treasured and handed down from gen 
eration to generation as priceless heirlooms, and with 
them, let us trust, will be cherished the custom of 
dressing with annual flowers the resting-place of those 
who fell during the Civil War. 

" With the tears a land hath shed 
Their graves should ever be green. 

"Ever their fair, true glory 

Fondly should fame rehearse, 
Light of legend and story, 
Flower of marble and verse." 

The impulse which led us to set apart a day for dec 
orating the graves of our soldiers sprang from the 


grieved heart of the Nation, and in our time there 
is little chance of the rite being neglected. But the 
generations that come after us should not allow the 
observance to fall into disuse. What with us is an 
expression of fresh love and sorrow should be with 
them an acknowledgment of an incalculable debt. 

Decoration Day is the most beautiful of our na 
tional holidays. How different from those sullen bat 
teries which used to go rumbling through our streets 
are the crowds of light carriages, laden with flowers 
and greenery, wending their way to the neighboring 
cemeteries! The grim cannon have turned into palm 
branches, and the shell and shrapnel into peach blooms. 
There is no hint of war in these gay baggage trains, 
except the presence of men in undress uniforms, and 
perhaps here and there an empty sleeve to remind 
one of what has been. Year by year that empty sleeve 
is less in evidence. 

The observance of Decoration Day is unmarked by 
that disorder and confusion common enough with our 
people in their holiday moods. The earlier sorrow 
has faded out of the hour, leaving a softened solem 
nity. It quickly ceased to be simply a local commemora 
tion. While the sequestered country churchyards and 
burial-places near our great Northern cities were being 
hung with May garlands, the thought could not but 
come to us that there were graves lying southward , 
above which bent a grief as tender and sacred as our 
own. Invisibly we dropped unseen flowers upon these 
mounds. There is a beautiful significance in the fact 
that, two years after the close of the war, the women 
of Columbus, Mississippi, laid their offerings alike on 


Northern and Southern graves. When all is said, the 
great Nation has but one heart. 



Blessed are the dead whose memory is perpetuated 
by the flower service of a grateful people. How 
truly immortal are those who give their lives for lib 
erty. To have lived long, purposeless, neutral years, 
1 is nothing to have lived a few glorious hours, to have 
bravely faced the infinite, to have calmly met the 
Master in humanity s cause, is sublime. Why mourn 
these dead of ours? They sleep in the bosom of the 
land they loved. Here where the ground once shook 
beneath the tramp of contending hosts they are at 
rest. The sentinels no longer patrol the banks of the 
Potomac. Grant and Lee both lived to attest the 
goodness of a God who preserved the Union. And 
over the river, on the beauteous dome of the nation s 
Capitol, serenely uplifted toward the ethereal blue, 
kissed by the sun of day, wooed by the stars of night, 
tranquilly floats the unconquered flag of the greatest 
nation of the earth. 

Why mourn for those who slumber here? Their 
epitaphs are written in the grandest history of the 
ages. Before them will reverently pass the procession 
of the centuries. And every headstone roundabout, 
even those without a name, will be given honor- 


able place in the mighty monument that is to com 
memorate the ennobling and uplifting of the human 

It is a day of memories, a day when we meet in the 
hallowed past and hold communion with our holy 
dead. A day when we recall the glorious aspirations 
which thrilled men s souls in that heroic time, when 
to love one s country was to lay down one s life ; a day 
filled with that same spirit of freedom, patriotism, 
and devotion which breathed into the common dust of 
ordinary humanity the sublime inspiration of heroic 
deeds ; a day when we rekindle the fires of patriotism 
on the altar of our liberties and once again renew the 
loyal vows that these our noble dead in the years gone 
by consecrated with their hearts blood. 

Glorious are the dead who die for liberty. Blessed 
are they whose blood is shed for the welfare of their 
fellowmen. The great conflict in which our dead 
fought was, in the beginning, a contest between men, 
between sections. It was the Union against the con 
federacy. But it is evident that over and above the 
purposes of men was God s purpose. He would not 
permit the government of the United States to remain 
under a Constitution that sanctioned human slavery. 
He would not give victory to the Union arms until 
with it would come liberty to a race in chains. The 
careful student of the war of the rebellion has no dif 
ficulty in seeing that up to the time of the emancipa 
tion proclamation the doubtful tide of battle set most 
strongly against the Union shore. Disaster had fol 
lowed disaster until Lincoln himself almost despaired 
of ultimate victory; until it seemed as if the exulting 


Southern hosts were about to make good their boast of 
proclaiming the confederate government from the 
steps of the nation s Capitol. But from the hour of 
emancipation, from the hour in which the cause of the 
Union became the cause of liberty, from the hour in 
which the flag of the republic became the flag of 
humanity, from the hour in which its stars and stripes 
no longer floated over a slave ; yea, from the sacred 
hour of the nation s new birth that dear old banner 
never faded from the sky, and the brave boys who 
bore it never wavered in their onward march to vic 
tory. With the single exception of Chancellorsville, 
and that stubborn doubtful day at Chickamauga, no 
decisive field of battle was ever lost by the men who 
sang with redoubled enthusiasm " John Brown s body 
lies moldering in the grave, but his soul goes march 
ing on." Gettysburg at the east, Vicksburg at the 
west, ratified the President s action and woke the 
morning of our national holiday with a grand jubilee 
of joy. From Chattanooga to Appomattox, from At 
lanta to the sea, the hearts of the war-worn, battle- 
scarred veterans took new courage; all along the line 
they touched elbows with a steadier purpose, saw in 
each other s eyes a holier fire, joined with a new in 
spiration in that glorious anthem, " Mine eyes have 
seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." 

I believe our service should be a love service of 
prayer and praise and song, that out of the heroic 
memories of the past we should draw new inspirations 
of patriotism and find new ardor for the preservation 
of the free institutions which came to us through the 
baptism of fire and blood. But, for the first time in 


our history on Decoration Day, we are at war. Once 
more upon the soil of old Virginia the federal bayonets 
are agleam. From day to day the boys in blue pass 
by ; the reveille, the bugle call is heard even in this city 
of the silent dead. This time, thank God, the war is 
not sectional. There are no brothers arrayed against 
brothers ; no Americans against Americans. There is 
only one uniform in all the land, one flag in all the sky, 
one sentiment in the breasts of all the heroes of the re 

To-day I see the surviving veterans of the old Grand 
Army of the Republic, grizzled and gray, some with 
empty sleeves, some stumping their way on wooden 
pegs ; and I remember that in the years gone by these 
old veterans were boys; boys who left the plow, the 
forge, the loom, the shop, the office, the college, the 
sanctuary, to fight the battles of their country. They 
too broke the clasp of loving arms to go; they too 
left good-by kisses on tiny lips ; they too had mothers, 
wives, sisters, sweethearts ; they too turned from home 
and comfort and peace to follow the flag. God bless 
them, living and dead. May there be cheers for the 
living as long as the last survivor blesses the earth, 
may there be tears for the dead to the end of time. 

" Soldier, rest, thy warfare o er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more. 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil or night of waking." 

Yes ! rest in peace, oh, mighty dead. The cause for 
which you fought can never be assailed again. Rest 
in peace, the race whose freedom you achieved will 


bless you with their latest breath. Rest in peace, the 
Union you preserved remains forever, and liberty, 
equal rights, and justice is .the heritage of your 
descendants to the judgment day. God bless the men 
who followed the flag! 




Written in December, 1860, when South Carolina 
adopted the Ordinance of Secession 

She has gone, she had left us in passion and pride, 
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side ! 
She has torn her own star from our firmament s glow, 
And turned on her brother the face of a foe ! 

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
We can never forget that our hearts have been one, 
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty s name, 
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame! 

You were always too ready to fire at a touch ; 

But we said : " She s a beauty, she does not mean 

We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent 

threat ; 
But Friendship still whispered : " Forgive and forget." 

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown 


Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold ? 



Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain 
That her petulant children would sever in vain. 

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their 


Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, 
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their 

And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves : 

In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, 
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, 
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow 
Roll mingled in peace in the valleys below. 

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky; 

Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die ! 

Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with 

The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal ! 

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
There are battles with fate that can never be won ! 
The star-flowering banner must never be furled, 
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world ! 

Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof, 

Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof ; 

But when your heart aches, and your feet have grown 

Remember the pathway that leads to our door! 




Southrons, hear your country call you! 
Up, lest worse than death befall you ! 
To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
Lo ! all the beacon-fires are lighted, 
Let all hearts be now united ! 
To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! 
Advance the flag of Dixie! 

Hurrah! hurrah! 

For Dixie s land we take our stand, 
And live or die for Dixie ! 
To arms! To arms! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie! 

Fear no danger! Shun no labor! 
Lift up rifle, pike, and saber! 
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, 
Let the odds make each heart bolder! 

How the South s great heart rejoices 
At your cannons ringing voices! 
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, 
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken. 


Strong as lions, swift as eagles, 

Back to their kennels hunt these beagles ! 

Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! 

Let them hence each other plunder ! 

Swear upon your country s altar 
Never to submit or falter, 
Till the spoilers are defeated, 
Till the Lord s work is completed. 

Halt not till our Federation 
Secures among earth s powers its station ! 
Then at peace, and crowned with glory, 
Hear your children tell the story ! 

If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
Victory soon shall bring them gladness, 

To arms ! 

Exultant pride soon banish sorrow, 
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 

To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 

Hurrah! hurrah! 

For Dixie s land we take our stand, 
And live or die for Dixie ! 
To arms! To arms! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

To arms! To arms! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 





First O songs for a prelude, 

Lightly strike on the stretch d tympanum pride and 
joy in my city, 

How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue, 

How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she 

(O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! 

O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O 
truer than steel!) 

How you sprang how you threw off the costumes 
of peace with indifferent hand, 

How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum 
and fife were heard in their stead, 

How you led to the war (that shall serve for our pre 
lude, songs of soldiers), 

How Manhattan drum-taps led. 

Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading, 
Forty years as a pageant, till unawares the lady of 

this teeming and turbulent city, 
Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable 


With her million children around her, suddenly, 
At dead of night, at news from the south, 
Incens d struck with clinch d hand the pavement. 

1 From " Selected Poems." Published by David McKay, 


A shock electric, the night sustain d it, 

Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour d out 

its myriads. 
From the houses then and the workshops, and through 

all the doorways, 
Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming. 

To the drum-taps prompt, 

The young men falling in and arming, 

The mechanics arming (the trowel, the jack-plane, the 

blacksmith s hammer, tost aside with precipita 
The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge 

leaving the court, 
The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping 

down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the 

horses backs, 
The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, 

porter, all leaving; 
Squads gather everywhere by common consent and 

The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them 

how to wear their accounterments, they buckle 

the straps carefully, 
Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the 

The white tents cluster in camps, and arm d sentries 

around, the sunrise cannon and again at sunset, 
Arm d regiments arrive every day, pass through the 

city, and embark from the wharves, 
(How good they look as they tramp down to the river, 

sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders! 


How I love them! how I could hug them, with their 

brown faces and their clothes and knapsacks 

cover d with dust!) 
The blood of the city up arm d! arm d! the cry 

The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and 

from all the public buildings and stores, 
The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son 

kisses his mother, 
(Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she 

speak to detain him), 

The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preced 
ing, clearing the way, 
The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd 

for their favorites, 
The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn 

along, rumble lightly over the stones, 
(Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence, 
Soon unlimber d to begin the red business) ; 
All the mutter of preparation, all the determin d 


The hospital service, the lint, bandages, and medicines, 
The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun 

for in earnest, no mere parade now ; 
War! an arm d race is advancing! the welcome for 

battle, no turning away ; 
War ! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm d race is 

advancing to welcome it. 

Mannahatta a-march and it s O to sing it well! 
It s O for a manly life in the camp. 


And the sturdy artillery, 

The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve 

well the guns, 
Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for 

salutes for courtesies merely), 
Put in something now besides powder and wadding. 

And you, lady of ships, you Mannahatta, 
Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city, 
Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or cov 
ertly frown d amid all your children, 
But now you smile with joy exulting, old Mannahatta. 



Men of the North, look up! 

There s a tumult in your sky; 
A troubled glory surging out, 

Great shadows hurrying by. 

Your strength where is it now? 

Your quivers are they spent ? 
Your arrows in the rust of death, 

Your fathers bows unbent? 

Men of the North, awake! 

Ye re called to from the deep ; 
Trumpets in every breeze 

Yet there ye lie asleep. 


A stir in every tree; 

A shout from every wave ; 
A challenging on every side ; 

A moan from every grave: 

A battle in the sky; 

Ships thundering through the air 
Jehovah on the march 

Men of the North, to prayer! 

Now, now in all your strength ; 

There s that before your way, 
Above, about you, and below, 

Like armies in array. 

Lift up your eyes, and see 

The changes overhead ; 
Now hold your breath and hear 

The mustering of the dead. 

See how the midnight air 

With bright commotion burns, 
Thronging with giant shapes, 

Banner and spear by turns. 

The sea-fog driving in, 

Solemnly and swift, 
The moon afraid stars dropping out 

The very skies adrift; 

The Everlasting God, 

Our Father Lord of Love 
With cherubim and seraphim 

All gathering above ; 


Their stormy plumage lighted up 
As forth to war they go; 

The shadow of the Universe, 
Upon our haughty foe ! 



Born free, thus we resolve to live: 
By Heaven, we will be free! 
By all the stars which burn on high 
By the green earth the mighty sea 
By God s unshaken majesty, 

We will be free or die! 

Then let the drums all roll! 

Let all the trumpets blow! 

Mind, heart, and soul, 

We spurn control 

Attempted by a foe! 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free! 
And, vainly now the Northmen try 
To beat us down in arms we stand 
To strike for this our native land! 

We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! etc. 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free! 


Our wives and children look on high, 
Pray God to smile upon the right! 
And bid us in the deadly fight 

As freemen live or die! 

Then let the drums all roll ! etc. 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free ! 
And ere we cease this battle-cry, 
Be all our blood, our kindred s spilt, 
On bayonet or saber hilt! 

We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! etc. 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free ! 
Defiant let the banners fly, 
Shake out their glories to the air, 
And kneeling, brothers, let us swear 

We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! etc. 

Born free, thus we resolve to live : 
By Heaven, we will be free ! 
And to this oath the dead reply 
Our valiant fathers sacred ghosts 
These with us, and the God of hosts, 

We will be free or die ! 

Then let the drums all roll ! etc. 





Beat ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Through the windows through doors burst like a 

ruthless force, 

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, 
Into the school where the scholar is studying; 
Leave not the bridegroom quiets-no happiness must 

he have now with his bride, 
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field 

or gathering his grain, 
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums so shrill 

you bugles blow. 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Over the traffic of cities over the rumble of wheels 
in the streets ; 

Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? 
no sleepers must sleep in those beds, 

No bargainers bargains by day no brokers or spec 
ulators would they continue? 

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer at 
tempt to sing? 

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case 
before the judge? 

Then rattle quicker, heavier drums you bugles wilder 

1 From " Selected Poems. 1 Published by David McKay. 


Beat ! beat ! drums ! blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Make no parley stop for no expostulation, 

Mind not the timid mind not the weeper or prayer, 

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, 

Let not the child s voice be heard, nor the mother s 

Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they 

lie awaiting the hearses, 
So strong you thump O terrible drums so loud you 

bugles blow. 



I am War. The upturned eyeballs of piled dead men 

greet my eye, 
And the sons of mothers perish and I laugh to see 

them die, 

Mine the demon lust for torture, mine the devil lust 

for pain, 
And there is to me no beauty like the pale brows of 

the slain ! 
But my voice calls forth the godlike from the sluggish 

souls at ease, 
And the hands that toyed with ledgers scatter thunders 

round the seas; 
And the lolling idler, wakening, measures up to God s 

own plan, 
And the puling tiifler greatens to the stature of a man. 


When I speak, the centuried towers of old cities melt 

in smoke, 
And the fortressed ports sink reeling at my far-aimed 

thunder-stroke ; 
And an immemorial empire flings its last flag to the 

Sinking with its splintered navies down in the un- 

pitying seas. 

But the blind of sight awaken to an unimagined day, 
And the mean of soul grow conscious there is great 
ness in their clay ; 
Where my bugle voice goes pealing slaves grow heroes 

at its breath, 
And the trembling coward rushes to the welcome arms 

of death. 

Pagan, heathen, and inhuman, devilish as the heart of 

Wild as chaos, strong for ruin, clothed in hate un 

So they call me, and I care not, still I work my 
waste afar, 

Heeding not your weeping mothers and your widows 
-I am War! 

But your soft-boned men grow heroes when my flam 
ing eyes they see, 

And I teach your little people how supremely great 
they be; 

Yea, I tell them of the wideness of the soul s unfolded 

And the godlike stuff that s molded in the making of 
a man. 


Ah, the godlike stuff that s molded in the making of 

a man! 
It has stood my iron testing since this strong old world 

Tell me not that men are weaklings, halting tremblers, 

pale and slow, 
There is stuff to shame the seraphs in the race of men 

I know. 
I have tested them by fire, and I know that man is 

And the soul of man is stronger than is either death 

or fate; 
And where er my bugle calls them, under any sun or 

They will leap with smiling faces to the fire test of 




The maid who binds her warrior s sash 

With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
The while beneath her drooping lash 

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, 
Though Heaven alone records the tear, 

And Fame shall never know her story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 

As e er bedewed the field of glory! 

1 By permission of the publishers, J. P. Lip pine ott & Co., 


The wife who girds her husband s sword, 

Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
And bravely speaks the cheering word, 

What though her heart be rent asunder, 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 

The bolts of death around him rattle, 
Hath shed as sacred blood as e er 

Was poured upon the field of battle ! 

The mother who conceals her grief 

While to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
Sheds holy blood as e er the sod 

Received on Freedom s field of honor! 



This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and 

Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of 


l By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifttin & Co. 


Hung over field and city : now everywhere is seen, 
In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of 

The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless 

To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating 
on the breeze. 

There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter s snow- 
draped gloom, 

The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into 

Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed, 
And garden-plot and meadow wear one generous flush 

of red; 

But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true, 
Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and 


Along the whole awakening North are those bright em 
blems spread ; 

A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead : 

No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or 
clan ; 

But " Up for God and Union ! " is the shout of every 

Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard- 
earned homes more dear; 
But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer; 


And Freedom s flag is sacred; he who would work it 

Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right 


Ah brother ! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word ! 
The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be 

Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and 

waited for; 
We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they 

would have it war. 

Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lex 

A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart 
has run. 

Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have 

Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom 

To war, and with our brethren then, if only this 

can be! 

Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty ! 
Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will 

Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield 

the Right ! 


July 21, 1861 


They have met at last as storm-clouds 

Meet in heaven, 
And the Northmen back and bleeding 

Have been driven : 

And their thunders have been stilled, 
And their leaders crushed or killed, 
And their ranks with terror thrilled, 

Rent and riven ! 

Like the leaves of Vallombrosa 

They are lying; 
In the moonlight, in the midnight, 

Dead and dying; 

Like those leaves before the gale, 
Swept their legion, wild and pale ; 
While the host that made them quail 

Stood, defying. 

When aloft in morning sunlight 

Flags were flaunted, 
And " swift vengeance on the rebel " 

Proudly vaunted; 
Little did they think that night 
Should close upon their shameful flight, 
And rebels, victors in the fight, 

Stand undaunted. 


But peace to those who perished 

In our passes! 
Light be the earth above them ; 

Green the grasses! 
Long shall Northmen rue the day 
When they met our stern array, 
And shrunk from battle s wild affray 

At Manassas. 



Alas ! the weary hours pass slow, 

The night is very dark and still; 
And in the marshes far below 

I hear the bearded whippoorwill ; 
I scarce can see a yard ahead, 

My ears are strained to catch each sound; 
I hear the leaves about me shed, 

And the spring s bubbling through the ground. 

Along the beaten path I pace, 

Where white rays mark my sentry s track; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman s form with bending back, 
I think I see him crouching low ; 

I stop and list I stoop and peer, 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 


With ready piece I wait and watch, 

Until my eyes, familiar grown, 
Detect each harmless earthen notch, 

And turn guerrillas into stone ; 
And then, amid the lonely gloom, 

Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, 
My silent marches I resume, 

And think of other times than these. 

Sweet visions through the silent night ! 

The deep bay windows fringed with vine, 
The room within, in softened light, 

The tender, milk-white hand in mine; 
The timid pressure, and the pause 

That often overcame our speech 
The time when by mysterious laws 

We each felt all in all to each. 

And then that bitter, bitter day, 

When came the final hour to part ; 
When, clad in soldier s honest gray, 

I pressed her weeping to my heart; 
Too proud of me to bid me stay, 

Too fond of me to let me go, 
I had to tear myself away, 

And left her, stolid in my woe. 

So rose the dream, so passed the night 
When, distant in the darksome glen, 

Approaching up the somber height 
I heard the solid march of men ; 

Till over stubble, over sward, 

And fields where lay the golden sheaf, 


I saw the lantern of the guard 
Advancing with the night relief. 

"Halt! Who goes there?" my challenge cry, 

It rings along the watchful line; 
" Relief ! " I hear a voice reply ; 

" Advance, and give the countersign ! " 
With bayonet at the charge I wait 

The corporal gives the mystic spell ; 
With arms aport I charge my mate, 

Then onward pass, and all is well. 

But in the tent that night awake, 

I ask, if in the fray I fall, 
Can I the mystic answer make 

When the angelic sentries call ? 
And pray that Heaven may so ordain, 

Whene er I go, what fate be mine, 
Whether in pleasure or in pain, 

I still may have the countersign. 




In the prison cell I sit, 

Thinking, mother dear, of you, 
And our bright and happy home so far away, 

And the tears they fill my eyes, 

Spite of all that I can do, 
Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay. 



Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching, 
Oh, cheer up, comrades, they will come. 

And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air 

Of freedom in our own beloved home. 

In the battle front we stood 

When the fiercest charge they made, 
And they swept us off a hundred men or more, 

But before we reached their lines 

They were beaten back dismayed, 
And we heard the cry of vict ry o er and o er. 

So, within the prison cell 

We are waiting for the day 
That shall come to open wide the iron door, 

And the hollow eye grows bright, 

And the poor heart almost gay, 

As we think of seeing friends and home once more. 




So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, 
That story of Kearny who knew not to yield ! 

Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and 

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, MiMin & Co. 


Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose 

Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf 

oak and pine, 
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and 

No charge like Phil Kearny s along the whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our 

He rode down the length of the withering column, 

And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound ; 
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder, 
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign : 
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the 


" There s the devil s own fun, boys, along the whole 

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his 

blade brighten 

In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 

But a soldier s glance shot from his visor beneath. 
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 

Asking where to go in, through the clearing or 

" O, anywhere ! Forward ! Tis all the same, 

Colonel : 
You ll find lovely fighting along the whole line ! " 


O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 

That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! 
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, 

The flower of our knighthood, the whole army s 

pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still, in that shadowy region 

Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum 
mer s sign, 
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 

And the word still is Forward ! along the whole line. 



O thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced 


Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield 
The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, 
And turn a stony gaze on human tears, 
Thy cruel reign is o er ; 
Thy bondmen crouch no more 
In terror at the menace of thine eye ; 

For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, 
Long-suffering, hath heard the captive s cry, 

And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, 
And lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled 
Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. 


A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent; 

Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks; 

Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks 
Send up hosannas to the firmament ! 
Fields where the bondman s toil 
No more shall trench the soil, 
Seem now to bask in a serener day ; 

The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs 
Of heaven with more caressing softness play, 

Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. 
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, 
For the great land and all its coasts are free. 

Within that land wert thou enthroned of late, 
And they by whom the nation s laws were made, 
And they who rilled its judgment-seats, obeyed 

Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. 
Fierce men at thy right hand, 
With gesture of command, 

Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay ; 
And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee rfot, 

Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay 
Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought; 

While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, 

Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. 

Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore, 
The wrath of Heaven o ertook thee in thy pride ; 
Thou sitt st a ghastly shadow ; by thy side 
Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore. 
And they who quailed but now 
Before thy lowering brow, 


Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, 
And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. 

And they who ruled in thine imperial name, 
Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, 

Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, 

And shattered at a blow the prisoner s chain. 

Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare 
Life s tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part 
Husband and wife, and from the mother s heart 
Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer ; 
Thy inner lair became 
The haunt of guilty shame ; 

Thy lash dropped blood ; the murderer, at thy side, 
Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance 

Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, 

A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, 
Until the measure of thy sins at last 
Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast ! 

Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place 
With hateful memories of the elder time, 
With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, 

And bloody war that thinned the human race ; 
With the Black Death, whose way 
Through wailing cities lay, 

Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built 
The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught 

To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt 
Death at the stake to those that held them not. 

Lo! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom 

Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. 


I see the better years that hasten by 
Carry thee back into that shadowy past, 
Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, 

The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie. 
The slave-pen, through whose door 
Thy victims pass no more, 

Is there, and there shall the grim block remain 
At which the slave was sold ; while at thy feet 

Scourges and engines of restraint and pain 
Molder and rust by thine eternal seat. 

There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, 

Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. 



A line in long array where they wind betwixt green 

They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the 
sun, hark to the musical clank, 

Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses 
loitering stop to drink, 

Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person, 
a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles, 

Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just en 
tering the ford while, 

Scarlet and blue and snowy white, 

The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. 




I see before me now a traveling army halting, 

Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the 
orchards of summer, 

Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in 
places rising high, 

Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall 
shapes dingily seen, 

The numerous camp-fires scattered near and far, some 
away up on the mountain, 

The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large- 
sized, flickering, 

And over all the sky the sky! far, far out of reach, 
studded, breaking out, the eternal stars. 



Would you hear of the River-Fight? 
It was two of a soft spring night ; 

God s stars looked down on all, 
And all was clear and bright 
But the low fog s chilling breath 
Up the River of Death 

Sailed the Great Admiral. 


On our high poop-deck he stood, 

And round him ranged the men 
Who have made their birthright good 

Of manhood, once and again, 
Lords of helm and of sail, 
Tried in tempest and gale, 

Bronzed in battle and wreck: 
Bell and Bailey grandly led 
Each his Line of the Blue and Red, 
Wainwright stood by our starboard rail, 

Thornton fought the deck. 

And I mind me of more than they, 
Of the youthful, steadfast ones, 
That have shown them worthy sons 

Of the Seamen passed away 

Tyson conned our helm that day, 
Watson stood by his guns. 

What thought our Admiral then. 
Looking down on his men ? 

Since the terrible day, 

(Day of renown and tears!) 

When at anchor the Essex lay, 

Holding her foes at bay, 
When, a boy, by Porter s side he stood 
Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood, 
Tis half a hundred years 

Half a hundred years to-day! 

Who could fail with him? 
Who reckon of life or limb? 

Not a pulse but beat the higher! 


There had you seen, by the starlight dim, 
Five hundred faces strong and grim 

The Flag is going under fire ! 
Right up by the fort, with her helm hard-a-port, 

The Hartford is going under fire ! 

The way to our work was plain, 
Caldwell had broken the chain 
(Two hulks swung down amain, 

Soon as twas sundered). 
Under the night s dark blue, 
Steering steady and true, 
Ship after ship went through, 
Till, as we hove in view, 

Jackson out-thundered. 

Back echoed Philip ! ah, then 
Could you have seen our men, 

How they sprung, in the dim night haze, 
To their work of toil and of clamor! 
How the loaders, with sponge and rammer, 
And their captains, with cord and hammer, 

Kept every muscle ablaze ! 
How the guns, as with cheer and shout 
Our tackle-men hurled them out, 

Brought up on the waterways! 

First, as we fired at their flash, 

Twas lightning and black eclipse, 
With a bellowing roll and crash ; 
But soon, upon either bow, 

What with forts, and fire-rafts, and ships, 


(The whole fleet was hard at it now, 

All pounding away!) and Porter 

Still thundering with shell and mortar, 

Twas the mighty sound and form 

Of an equatorial storm ! 

(Such you see in the Far South, 
After long heat and drouth, 

As day draws nigh to even : 
Arching from North to South, 
Blinding the tropic sun, 
The great black bow comes on, 
Till the thunder-veil is riven, 
When all is crash and levin, 
And the cannonade of heaven 
Rolls down the Amazon!) 

But, as we worked along higher, 
Just where the river enlarges, 

Down came a pyramid of fire 

It was one of your long coal barges 
(We had often had the like before). 

Twas coming down on us to larboard, 
Well in with the eastern shore, 
And our pilot, to let it pass round, 
(You may guess we never stopped to sound) 

Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, 
Ran the Flag hard and fast aground ! 

Twas night abreast the Upper Fort, 
And straightway a rascal Ram 
(She was shaped like the devil s dam) 


Puffed away for us with a snort, 

And shoved it with spiteful strength 
Right alongside of us, to port. 

(It was all of our ship s length, 
A huge crackling Cradle of the Pit, 

Pitch-pine knots to the brim, 

Belching flame red and grim) 
What a roar came up from it ! 

Well, for a little it looked bad ; 

But these things are, somehow, shorter 
In the acting than the telling. 
There was no singing-out nor yelling, 
Nor any fussing and fretting, 

No stampede, in short; 
But there we were, my lad, 

All afire on our port quarter, 
Hammocks ablaze in the netting, 

Flames spouting in at every port, 
Our Fourth Cutter burning at the davit, 
No chance to lower away and save it. 

In a twinkling the flames had risen 
Halfway to maintop and mizzen, 

Darting up the shrouds like snakes. 

Ah, how we clanked at the brakes ! 

And the deep steam-pumps throbbed under, 

Sending a ceaseless flow. 
Our topmen, a dauntless crowd, 
Swarmed in rigging and shroud 

There ( twas a wonder!) 


The burning ratlines and strands 

They quenched with their bare hard hands; 

But the great guns below 
Never silenced their thunder! 

At last, by backing and sounding, 

When we were clear of grounding, 
And under headway once more, 

The whole rebel fleet came rounding 
The point. If we had it hot before, 
Twas now, from shore to shore, 
One long, loud thundering roar 

Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, 
And smashing as you never heard before! 

But that we fought foul wrong to wreck, 
And to save the Land we loved so well, 

You might have deemed our long gun deck 
Two hundred feet of hell ! 

For all above was battle, 
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, 

Smoke and thunder alone ; 
But, down in the sick-bay, 
Where our wounded and dying lay, 

There was scarce a sob or a moan. 

And at last, when the dim day broke, 
And the sullen sun awoke, 

Drearily blinking 

O er the haze and the cannon-smoke, 
That ever such morning dulls, 
There were thirteen traitor hulls 

On fire and sinking! 

THE WAR 101 



When the blue-black waves are tipped with white, and 

the balmy trade-winds blow, 
When the palm-crowned coast in the offing lies, with 

sands like the driven snow, 
When the mighty hulls of the battleships the nation s 

strength arid pride 
And the ghostlike little torpedo-boats are lying side by 


When all is still save the screaming gulls, as they 

circle high o erhead, 
When naught is heard on the steel-bound decks, save 

the watches measured tread, 
When far to windward a tiny cloud floats up from 

the grim old fort, 
Then the piercing scream of a shrapnel-shot and the 

ten-ton gun s report; 

Then armored decks are alive with life, and the calls 

to quarters below, 
Then the gun crews stand beside their guns, and the 

stokers sweat below, 
Then the jingling bells in the engine-room clamor and 

call for speed, 
And the thousand tons of hardened steel shake like a 

wind-tossed reed. 





Now the guns of the fort are belching flame, and the 

shot and shell fall fast, 
Now three are down by the forward gun, and six in 

the fighting mast, 
Now the ships rush on in majesty, while the gunners 

hold their breath, 
And pray to their God to spare them still from the 

harbor s hidden death. 

Now a string of fluttering signal flags from the bridge 

of the flagship fly, 
Now the gatlings, rapids, and twelve-inch guns with 

a crashing peal reply, 
Now the smoke hangs low o er the shot-torn wave, 

dark death lurks in the air, 
And never a word by the guns is said while they spit 

and boom and flare. 

The fleet steams up in battle array, and the broadsides 

crash and roar, 
While the rumble and rip from the enemy s guns reply 

from the smoke-hung shore ; 
The once white decks run red with blood, while the 

surgeons work below, 
And fort and fleet, with shot and shell, pay back each 

blow with blow. 

At last a flag of truce is raised and gleams through the 

drifting smoke, 
And the havoc and wreck of a gun is seen, where a 

ten-inch shrapnel broke ; 

THE WAR 103 

At last the guns of the fleet are still, and now from 

far and near 
Are heard the shouts of a victor s crew as they answer 

cheer with cheer. 

The shrilly call of the bo s n s mate the crew from 

quarters pipes, 
And the dead are stretched on the quarter-deck, 

wrapped in the stars and stripes, 
While the setting sun sinks in the west, a blazing ball 

of fire, 
Lighting the scene of a battle fought, and the carnage 

of man s desire. 

December 13, 1862 


The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, 

And on the churchyard by the road I know 

It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 

Twas such a night two weary summers fled ; 

The stars, as now, were waning overhead. 

Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow 

Where the swift currents of the river flow 

Past Fredericksburg : far off the heavens are red 

With sudden conflagration : on yon height, 

Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath : 

1 By permission of the publishers, H ought on, Mifflin & Co. 


A single-rocket pierces the dense night, 

Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath : 

Hark! the artillery massing on the right, 

Hark! the black squadrons wheeling down to Death. 



That night I think that no one slept ; 

No bells were struck, no whistle blew, 
And when the watch was changed I crept 

From man to man of all the crew 
With whispered orders. Though we swept 

Through roaring seas, we hushed the clock, 

And muffled every clanking block. 

So when one fool, unheeding, cried 
Some petty order, straight I ran, 

And threw him sprawling o er the side. 
All life is but a narrow span: 

It little matters that one bide 
A moment longer here, for all 
Fare the same road, whate er befall. 

But vain my care ; for when the day 
Broke gray and wet, we saw the foe 

But half a stormy league away. 

By noon we saw his black bows throw 

Five fathoms high a wall of spray ; 
A little more, we heard the drum, 
And knew that our last hour had come. 

THE WAR 105 

All day our crew had lined the side 

With grim, set faces, muttering; 
And once a boy (the first that died) 

One of our wild songs tried to sing; 
But when their first shot missed us wide, 

A dozen sprang above our rail, 

Shook fists, and roared a cursing hail. 

Thereon, all hot for war, they bound 

Their heads with cool, wet bands, and drew 
Their belts close, and their keen blades ground ; 

Then, at the next gun s puff of blue, 
We set the grog-cup on its round, 

And pledged for life or pledged for death 

Our last sigh of expiring breath. 

Laughing, our brown young singer fell 

As their next shot crashed through our rail ; 

Then twixt us flashed the fire of hell, 
That shattered spar and riddled sail, 

What ill we wrought we could not tell ; 
But blood-red all their scuppers dripped 
When their black hull to starboard dipped. 

Nine times I saw our helmsman fall. 

And nine times sent new men, who took 
The whirling wheel as at death s call ; 

But when I saw the last one look 
From sky to deck, then, reeling, crawl 

Under the shattered rail to die, 

I knew where I should surely lie. 


I could not send more men to stand 
And turn in idleness the wheel 

Until they took death s beckoning hand, 
While others, meeting steel with steel, 

Flamed out their lives an eager band, 
Cheers on their lips, and in their eyes 
The goal-rapt look of high emprise. 

So to the wheel I went. Like bees 
I heard the shot go darting by; 

There came a trembling in my knees, 
And black spots whirled about the sky. 

I thought of things beyond the seas 
The little town where I was born, 
And swallows twittering in the morn. 

A wounded creature drew him where 

I grasped the wheel, and begged to steer. 
It mattered not how he might fare 

The little time he had for fear ; 
So if I left this to his care 

He too might serve us yet, he said. 

He died there while I shook my head. 

I would not fall so like a dog, 

My helpless back turned to the foe ; 

So when his great hulk, like a log, 
Came surging past our quarter, lo! 

With helm hard down, straight through the fog 
Of battle smoke, and luffing wide, 
I sent our sharp bow through his side. 

THE WAR 107 

The willing waves came rushing in 

The ragged entrance that we gave ; 
Like snakes I heard their green coils spin 

Up, up, around our floating grave ; 
But dauntless still, amid a din 

Of clashing steel and battle-shout, 

We rushed to drive their boarders out. 

Around me in a closing ring 

My grim- faced foemen darkly drew ; 

Then, sweeter than the lark in spring, 

Loud rang our blades ; the red sparks flew. 

Twice, thrice, I felt the sudden sting 

Of some keen stroke; then, swinging fair, 
My own clave more than empty air. 

The fight went raging past me when 
My good blade cleared a silent place; 

Then in a ring of fallen men 

I paused to breathe a little space. 

Elsewhere the deck roared like a glen 
When mountain torrents meet; the fray 
A moment then seemed far away. 

The barren sea swept to the sky ; 

The empty sky dipped to the sea ; 
Such utter waste could scarcely lie 

Beyond death s starved periphery. 
Only one living thing went by : 

Far overhead an ominous bird 

Rode down the gale with wings unstirred. 


Windward I saw the billows swing 
Dark crests to beckon others on 

To see our end ; then, hurrying 

To reach us ere we should be gone, 

They came, like tigers mad to fling 
Their jostling bodies on our ships, 
And snarl at us with foaming lips. 

There was no time to spare: a wave 
E en then broke growling at my feet; 

One last look to the sky I gave, 

Then sprang my eager foes to meet. 

Loud rang the fray above our grave 
I felt the vessel downward reel 
As my last thrust met thrusting steel. 

I heard a roaring in my ears ; 

A green wall pressed against my eyes ; 
Down, down I passed ; the vanished years 

I saw in mimicry arise. 
Yet even then I felt no fears, 

And with my last expiring breath 

My past rose up and mocked at death. 



For sixty days and upwards, 

A storm of shell and shot 
Rained round us in a flaming shower, 

But still we faltered not. 

THE WAR 109 

" If the noble city perish," 

Our grand young leader said, 
" Let the only walls the foe shall scale 

Be ramparts of the dead ! " 

For sixty days and upwards, 

The eye of heaven waxed dim ; 
And even throughout God s holy morn, 

O er Christian prayer and hymn, 
Arose a hissing tumult, 

As if the fiends in air 
Strove to engulf the voice of faith 

In the shrieks of their despair. 

There was wailing in the houses, 

There was trembling on the marts, 
While the tempest raged and thundered, 

Mid the silent thrill of hearts ; 
But the Lord, our shield, was with us, 

And ere a month had sped, 
Our very women walked the streets 

With scarce one throb of dread. 

And the little children gamboled, 

Their faces purely raised, 
Just for a wondering moment, 

As the huge bombs whirled and blazed ; 
Then turned with silvery laughter 

To the sports which children love, 
Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought 

That the good God watched above. 


Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, 

From scores of flame-clad ships, 
And about us, denser, darker, 

Grew the conflict s wild eclipse, 
Till a solid cloud closed o er us, 

Like a type of doom and ire, 
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues 

Of forked and vengeful fire. 

But the unseen hands of angels 

Those death-shafts warned aside, 
And the dove of heavenly mercy 

Ruled o er the battle tide ; 
In the houses ceased the wailing, 

And through the war-scarred marts 
The people strode, with step of hope, 

To the music in their hearts. 



We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou 
sand more, 

From Mississippi s winding stream and from New 
England s shore; 

We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and 
children dear, 

With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent 


We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before : 
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou 
sand more! 

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern 

Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may 
descry ; 

And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil 

And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, 

And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave 
music pour : 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou 
sand more ! 

If you look all up our valleys where the growing har 
vests shine, 

You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into 

And children from their mother s knees are pulling at 
the weeds, 

And learning how to reap and sow against their coun 
try s needs ; 

And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou 
sand more ! 

You have called us, and we re coming, by Richmond s 

bloody tide 
To lay us down, for Freedom s sake, our brother s 

bones beside, 


Or from foul treason s savage grasp to wrench the 
murderous blade, 

And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. 

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone 
before : 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou 
sand more ! 



O God of hosts, whose mighty hand 
Our fathers led across the seas, 

We took from thee our goodly land, 
To thee we look in days like these. 

Mid swelling tumult, bitter word, 
Mid clashing arms and bugles blare, 
While war-drums fret the fevered air, 

In days like these, be near, O Lord. 

The winds have swept our colors out, 
Our polished guns the sun has kissed ; 

With measured step and loyal shout, 
The men troop by who now are missed, 

The hilltops signal far away, 

The sea calls sea with beacon lips, 
Where ride our far-flung battleships 

To strike the foe at break of day. 

THE WAR 113 

Forgive, O Lord, that we forgot 

To humble self and thee to please ; 
Our vows unkept, sins thought, unthought, 

Forgive, O Lord, in days like these. 
Our gift upon the altar lies, 

Accept it ere thou call us hence, 

Although thou saidst obedience 
Is better than a sacrifice. 

Tis not for gain or vengeful spite 

Our treasure and our life is poured, 
But for the wronged who have no might, 

Whose cry has reached the ear of God. 
In days like these our motives take, 

Since whom thou usest thou must trust ; 

And when we strike because we must, 
Help us to heal the wounds we make. 



Is it good-by, 

My lad? 
No, I ll not cry. 
Has the time come? 
The bugle-call from the sea-wall, 
The tap of drum? 
My tears are dry. 


Rest your head here, 

My lad, 

Close to me, dear; 
Why do you stare? 
Have pain and care made me less fair ? 
Are my lips white with fear? 
Hark! how they cheer 
Down in the Square there! 

What do they care, 

My lad, 

For this brown hair 
That I love so? 

Their drums long roll will crush my soul- 
Ah, God ! don t go ! 
I cannot bear 

There, I ll be still, 

My lad, 
Truly I will ; 
My tears are spent. 
Which regiment will next be sent? 
Does every bullet kill? 
Hold me until 
The call is urgent ! 

Who spoke your name, 

My lad? 

The summons came 
Out of the crowd! 
Oh, hold me, lad ! fold me, lad ! 
Their flag s a shroud 
To bury shame! 

THE WAR 115 

Have they begun, 
My lad? 

See, the troops run! 
Your eyes are wet; 
You are so quiet; is there time yet? 
God ! It s the signal gun ! 
Kiss me, just one. 
Run with your musket! 


Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the fleet, April fth, 



Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe 

April day, 
The Northmen s mailed " Invincibles " steamed up 

fair Charleston Bay; 
They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on the 

Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the 


A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread 

monsters drew 
More closely to the game of death across the breezeless 



And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched 
the scene afar, 

Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle s broad 
ening star. 

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect 

The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling 

So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic 

They looked like forms of statued stone with burning 

human eyes ! 

Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rust 
ling fold, 

Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight s ruddy 

They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely 
echoing cheers, 

And then once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait 
the grim cannoneers. 

Onward in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the 

Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the 

When sudden, shivering up the calm, o er startled flood 

and shore, 
Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath 

of yore ! 

THE WAR 117 

Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in 

iron mail, 
Beware the storm that s opening now, God s vengeance 

guides the hail ! 
Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, gainst Law and 

Truth and Right; 
Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a 

mightier Might ! 

No empty boast! for while we speak, more furious, 

wilder, higher, 
Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of 

The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems 

rent above; 
Fight on, O knightly gentlemen ! for faith and home 

and love ! 

There s not in all that line of flame, one soul that would 

not rise 
To seize the victor s wreath of blood, though death 

must give the prize 
There s not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the 

ancient town 
A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one 

despot down. 

The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud 

armada sweeps, 
Where hot from Sumter s raging breast the volleyed 

lightning leaps; 


And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the 

sunset light, 
Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of 


O glorious Empress of the Main ! from out thy storied 

Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy 

festal fires, 
Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath 

nerved thy dauntless sons, 
And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God s angels 

near the guns ! 



Glory to Thee, Father of all the Immortal, 

Ever belongs; 
We bring Thee from our watch by the grave s portal 

Nothing but songs. 
Though every wave of trouble has gone o er us, 

Though in the fire 
We have lost treasures time cannot restore us, 

Though all desire 
That made life beautiful fades out in sorrow, 

Though the strange path 
Winding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow, 

No comfort hath, 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 

THE WAR 119 

Though blackness gathers round us on all faces, 

And we can see 
By the red war-flash but Love s empty places, 

Glory to Thee! 

For, underneath the crash and roar of battle, 

The deafening roll 
That calls men off to butchery like cattle, 

Soul after soul; 
Under the horrid sound of chaos seething 

In blind hot strife, 
We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathing 

A better life 
Into the air of our long-sickened nation; 

A muffled hymn; 
The star-sung prelude of a new creation; 

Suffusions dim, 
The bursting upward of a stifled glory, 

That shall arise 
To light new pages in the world s great story 

For happier eyes. 

If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning, 

Songs be not found, 
Yet wilt Thou know our life s s unuttered meaning: 

In its deep ground, 
As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenched praises, 

Waiting to bring 
Incense to Thee along thought s barren mazes 

When Thou send st spring. 

Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder, 
While a hushed land 


Hears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder, 

That Truth is grand 
As life must be; that neither man nor nation 

May soil Thy throne 
With a soul s life-blood horrible oblation! 

Nor quick be shown 
That Thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nurses 

Were Hate and Wrong; 
That trees so vile must drop back fruit in curses 

Bitter and strong. 

Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smother 

Ourselves in sin; 
Sending Pain s messengers fast on each other 

Us whence to win ! 
Praise for the scourging under which we languish, 

So torn, so sore ! 
And save us strength, if yet uncleansed by anguish, 

To welcome more. 
Life were not life to us, could they be fables, 

Justice and Right : 
Scathe crime with lightning, till we see the tables 

Of Law burn bright! 

Glory to Thee, whose glory and whose pleasure 

Must be in good ! 
By Thee the mysteries we cannot measure 

Are understood. 
With the abysses of Thyself above us, 

Our sins below, 

That Thou dost look from Thy pure heaven and 
love us, 

Enough to know. 

THE WAR 121 

Enough to lay our praises on Thy bosom 

Praises fresh-grown 
Out of our depths, dark root and open blossom, 

Up to Thy throne. 
When choking tears make our Hosannas falter, 

The music free! 
Oh, keep clear voices singing at Thy altar, 

Glory to Thee ! 



The U. S. Sanitary Commission zvas organized to sup 
ply comforts to the soldiers in the field. Out of 
this grew the Red Cross Associations 

Down the picket-guarded lane 
Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 

Soldier-like and merry : 
Phrases such as camps may teach, 
Saber-cuts of Saxon speech, 
Such as " Bully ! " " Them s the peach ! " 

"Wade in, Sanitary!" 

Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through, 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Miffiin & Co. 


Quick succeeding in review 

Squadrons military; 
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, 
" U. S. San. Com." " That s the cheese ! " 

" Pass in, Sanitary ! " 

In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won, 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo! was stationary; 
And where bullets whistling fly, 
Came the sadder, fainter cry, 
" Help us, brothers, ere we die, 

Save us, Sanitary ! " 

Such the work. The phantom flies, 
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 
But the brave whose dying eyes, 

Veiled and visionary, 
See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside 
Hear the voice to those who ride: 

" Pass in, Sanitary ! " 



O joy of creation 

To be! 
O rapture to fly 

And be free! 
1 By permission of the publishers, H ought on, Mifflin & Co. 

THE WAR 123 

Be the battle lost or won, 
Though its smoke shall hide the sun, 
I shall find my love, the one 
Born for me! 

I shall know him where he stands, 

All alone, 
With the power in his hands 

Not o erthrown ; 
I shall know him by his face, 
By his godlike front and grace ; 
I shall hold him for a space, 

All my own! 

It is he O my love ! 

So bold! 
It is I all thy love 

Foretold ! 

It is I. O love ! what bliss ! 
Dost thou answer to my kiss ? 
O sweetheart! what is this 

Lieth there so cold? 



Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 

wrath are stored ; 


He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible 

swift sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred 
circling camps ; 

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps; 

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flar 
ing lamps. 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 

steel : 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 

his heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg 
ment-seat : 

Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and 


THE WAR 125 

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men 

While God is marching on. 



" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

" Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
Tis nothing a private or two now and then 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost only one of the men, 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 

Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind. 

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; 
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 

Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

There s only the sound of the lone sentry s tread, 
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 

And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 


His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 

For their mother; may Heaven defend her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. 
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
It looked like a rifle . . . "Ha! Mary, good-by!" 

The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night; 

No sound save the rush of the river ; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead 

The picket s off duty forever! 

THE WAR 127 


Headquarters, Army Northern 


August 13, 1 86 j. 

The President of the Confederate States has, in 
the name of the people, appointed August 2ist as a 
day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer. A strict ob 
servance of the day is enjoined upon the officers and 
soldiers of this army. All military duties, except such 
as are absolutely necessary, will be suspended. The 
commanding officers of brigades and regiments are re 
quested to cause divine services, suitable to the oc- 
casion^ to be performed in their respective commands. 
Soldiers ! we have sinned against Almighty God. We 
have forgotten His signal mercies, and have cultivated 
a jevengeful, haughty, and boastful spirit. We have 
not remembered that the defenders of a just cause 
should be pure in His eyes ; that " our times are in His 
hands," and we have relied too much on our own arms 
for the achievement of our independence. God is 
our only refuge and our strength. Let us humble our 
selves before Him. Let us confess our many sins, and 
beseech Him to give us a higher courage, and a purer 
patriotism, and a more determined will; that He will 
convert the hearts of our enemies ; that He will hasten 
the time when war, with its sorrows and sufferings, 
shall cease, and that He will give us a name and place 
among the nations of the earth. 

R. E. LEE, General. 





The sun had set; 

The leaves with dew were wet: 

Down fell a bloody dusk 

On the woods, that second of May, 

Where Stonewall s corps, like a beast of prey, 

Tore through, with angry tusk. 

" They ve trapped us, boys ! " 
Rose from our flank a voice. 
With a rush of steel and smoke 
On came the rebels straight, 
Eager as love and wild as hate ; 
And our line reeled and broke: 

Broke and fled. 

No one stayed but the dead! 

With curses, shrieks, and cries, 

Horses and wagons and men 

Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, 

And above us the fading skies. 

There s one hope still, 
Those batteries parked on the hill! 
" Battery, wheel! " (mid the roar) 
" Pass pieces ; fix prolonge to fire 
Retiring. Trot ! " In the panic dire 
A bugle rings " Trot ! " and no more. 

THE WAR 129 

The horses plunged, 

The cannon lurched and lunged, 

To join the hopeless rout. 

But suddenly rode a form 

Calmly in front of the human storm, 

With a stern, commanding shout: 

" Align those guns ! " 

(We knew it was Pleasanton s.) 

The cannoneers bent to obey, 

And worked with a will at his word : 

And the black guns moved as if they had heard. 

But ah the dread delay ! 

" To wait is crime ; 
O God, for ten minutes time ! " 
The General looked around. 
There Keenan sat, like a stone, 
With his three hundred horse alone, 
Less shaken than the ground. 

" Major, your men? " 

" Are soldiers, General." " Then 

Charge, Major! Do your best: 

Hold the enemy back, at all cost, 

Till my guns are placed, else the army is lost. 

You die to save the rest ! " 


By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, 
Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton s eyes 
For an instant, clear, and cool, and still; 
Then, with a smile, he said : " I will." 


" Cavalry, charge ! " Not a man of them shrank. 

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, 

Rose joyously, with a willing breath, 

Rose like a greeting hail to death. 

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed ; 

Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed ; 

Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, 

In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; 

And above in the air, with an instinct true, 

Like a bird of war their pennon flew. 

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, 

And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, 

And strong brown faces bravely pale 

For fear their proud attempt shall fail, 

Three hundred Pennsylvanians close 

On twice ten thousand gallant foes. 

Line after line the troopers came 

To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame; 

Rode in and sabered and shot and fell; 

Nor came one back his wounds to tell. 

And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall 

In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, 

While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung 

Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. 

Line after line ay, whole platoons, 

Struck dead in their saddles of brave dragoons 

By the maddened horses were onward borne 

And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn ; 

As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. 

So they rode, till there were no more to ride. 

THE WAR 131 

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, 
What deep echo rolls? Tis a death-salute 
From the cannon in place ; for, heroes, you braved 
Your fate not in vain : the army was saved ! 

Over them now year following year 

Over their graves the pine-cones fall, 

And the whippoorwill chants his specter-call; 

But they stir not again ; they raise no cheer ; 

They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, 

Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. 

The rush of their charge is resounding still 

That saved the army at Chancellorsville. 



(During the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of 
the campaign of 1864, General Robert E. Lee, impressed 
with the desperate necessity of carrying a certain peculiarly 
difficult position, seized the colors of a Texas regiment and 
undertook to lead the perilous assault in person. The troops 
and their colonel remonstrated with vehemence, the colonel, 
in his men s behalf, pledging the regiment to carry the posi 
tion if General Lee would retire. The troops advanced to 
the charge shouting "Lee to the Rear!" as a sort of battle 
cry. From American War Ballads and Lyrics.) 

Dawn of a pleasant morning in May 
Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray; 
While perched in the tallest treetops, the birds 
Were caroling Mendelssohn s " Songs without 


Far from the haunts of men remote, 
The brook brawled on with a liquid note ; 
And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore 
The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore. 

Little by little, as daylight increased, 

And deepened the roseate flush in the East 

Little by little did morning reveal 

Two long glittering lines of steel ; 

Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, 
Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, 
The faces are sullen and grim to see 
In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. 

All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, 
Pealed on the silence the opening gun 
A little white puff of smoke there came, 
And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. 

Down on the left of the Rebel lines, 
Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, 
Before the Rebels their ranks can form, 
The Yankees have carried the place by storm. 

Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, 
Where many a hero has found a grave, 
And the gallant Confederates strive in vain 
The ground they have drenched with their blood to 

Yet louder the thunder of battler roared 
Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured; 

THE WAR 133 

Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, 
Furies twain, through the murky air. 

Not far off, in the saddle there sat 
A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat ; 
Not much moved by the fire was he, 
Calm and resolute Robert Lee. 

Quick and watchful he kept his eye 

On the bold Rebel brigades close by, 

Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, 

While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. 

For still with their loud, deep, bulldog bay, 
The Yankee batteries blazed away, 
And with every murderous second that sped 
A dozen brave fellows, alas ! fell dead. 

The grand old graybeard rode to the space 
Where Death and his victims stood face to face, 
And silently waved his old slouched hat 
A world of meaning there was in that! 

"Follow me! Steady! We ll save the day!" 
This was what he seemed to say; 
And to the light of his glorious eye 
The bold brigades thus made reply: 

" We ll go forward, but you must go back " 
And they moved not an inch in the perilous track; 
" Go to the rear, and we ll send them to hell ! " 
And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell. 


Turning his bridle, Robert Lee 
Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, 
Bursting the dykes in their overflow, 
Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. 

And backward in terror that foe was driven, 
Their banners rent and their columns riven, 
Wherever the tide of battle rolled 
Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. 

Sunset out of a crimson sky 
Streamed o er a field of ruddier dye, 
And the brook ran on with a purple stain, 
From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain. 

Seasons have passed since that day and year 
Again o er its pebbles the brook runs clear, 
And the field in a richer green is drest, 
Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest. 

Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, 

The sabers are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb ; 

And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled 

The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world ; 

But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides ; 
And down into history grandly rides, 
Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, 
The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat. 


THE WAR 135 


May, 1864 


O did you see him in the street, dressed up in army- 

When drums and trumpets into town their storm of 
music threw 

A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the 

The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips 
to tear? 

You didn t mind him? Oh, you looked beyond him 
then, perhaps, 

To see the mounted officers, rigged out with trooper- 

And shiny clothes, and sashes, and epaulets and all ; 

It wasn t for such things as these he heard his country 

She asked for men; and up he spoke, my handsome, 

hearty Sam, 
" I ll die for the dear old Union, if she ll take me as 

I am." 
And if a better man than he there s mother that can 

From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know! 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifftin & Co. 


You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or 
by stars, 

By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars ; 

Nor a corporal s strip of worsted; but there s some 
thing in his face, 

And something in his even step, a-marching in his 

That couldn t be improved by all the badges in the 

A patriot, and a good, strong man ; are generals much 

more grand? 
We rest our pride on that big heart wrapped up in 

The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too. 

He s never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks 
he s run, 

Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of Sixty- 

Through blood and storm he s held out firm, nor fret 
ted once, my Sam, 

At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam. 

Though many a time, he s told us, when he saw them 

lying dead, 
The boys that came from Newburyport, and Lynn, 

and Marblehead, 
Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by 

the sky, 
It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her 

life-blood dry. 

THE WAR 137 

" But then," he said, " the more s the need the coun 
try has of me : 

To live and fight the war all through, what glory it 
will be! 

The Rebel balls don t hit me; and, mother, if they 

You ll know I ve fallen in my place, where I have 
always stood." 

He s taken out his furlough, and short enough it 

seemed : 

I often tell Mehitabel he ll think he only dreamed 
Of walking with her nights so bright you couldn t see 

a star, 
And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor 


The Stars that shine above the Stripes, they light him 

southward now; 
The tide of war has swept him back; he s made a 

solemn vow 
To build himself no home-nest till his country s work 

is done; 
God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot, 

my son! 

And yet it is a pretty place where his new house 

might be; 
An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon 

the sea. 
The boy not work his father s farm? it seems almost 

a shame ; 
But any selfish plan for him he s never let me name. 


He s re-enlisted for the war, for victory or for death ! 

A soldier s grave, perhaps! the thought has half 
way stopped my breath, 

And driven a cloud across the sun; my boy, it will 
not be! 

The war will soon be over ; home again you ll come to 

He s re-enlisted: and I smiled to see him going, too! 

There s nothing that becomes him half so well as 

Only a private in the ranks ! but sure I am indeed, 

If all the privates were like him, they d scarcely cap 
tains need. 

And I, and Massachusetts share the honor of his birth : 
The grand old State ! to me the best in all the peopled 

earth ! 

I cannot hold a musket, but I have a son who can ; 
And I m proud for Freedom s sake to be the mother 

of a man! 



The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 
The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, 
And the sleepy mist on the river lies, 
Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes, 

THE WAR 139 

Awake ! awake ! awake ! 

O er field and wood and brake, 
With glories newly born, 

Comes on the blushing morn. 
Awake ! awake ! 

You have dreamed of your homes and friends all 

night ; 

You have basked in your sweethearts smiles so bright ; 
Come, part with them all for a while again, 
Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be men. 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out ! 

You have dreamed full long, I know. 
Turn out! turn out! turn out! 
The east is all aglow. 
Turn out ! turn out ! 

From every valley and hill there come 
The clamoring voices of fife and drum; 
And out in the fresh, cool morning air 
The soldiers are swarming everywhere. 
Fall in! fall in! fall in! 

Every man in his place, 
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in ! 
Each with a cheerful face, 
Fall in ! fall in ! 


Mobile Bay, August $, 1864 


Farragut, Farragut, 

Old Heart of Oak, 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke, 
Watches the hoary mist 

Lift from the bay, 
Till his flag, glory-kissed, 

Greets the young day. 

Far, by gray Morgan s walls, 

Looms the black fleet. 
Hark, deck to rampart calls 

With the drums beat ! 
Buoy your chains overboard, 

While the steam hums; 
Men ! to the battlement, 

Farragut comes. 

See, as the hurricane 

Hurtles in wrath 
Squadrons of clouds amain 

Back from its path! 
Back to the parapet, 

To the guns lips, 
Thunderbolt Farragut 

Hurls the black ships. 

THE WAR 141 

Now through the battle s roar 

Clear the boy sings, 
" By the mark fathoms four," 

While his lead swings. 
Steady the wheelmen five 

" Nor by East keep her," 
" Steady," but two alive ; 

How the shells sweep her! 

Lashed to the mast that sways 

Over red decks, 
Over the flame that plays 

Round the torn wrecks, 
Over the dying lips 

Framed for a cheer, 
Farragut leads his ships, 

Guides the line clear. 

On by heights cannon-browed, 

While the spars quiver; 
Onward still flames the cloud 

Where the hulks shiver. 
See, yon fort s star is set, 

Storm and fire past. 
Cheer him, lads Farragut, 

Lashed to the mast! 

Oh ! while Atlantic s breast 

Bears a white sail, 
While the Gulf s towering crest 

Tops a green vale, 


Men thy bold deeds shall tell, 
Old Heart of Oak, 

Daring Dave Farragut, 
Thunderbolt stroke ! 



Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go : 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 
Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

THE WAR 143 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet 
And the blind bat s flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

And now, when the cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had lain ; 

And the old man s tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son s again. 

The summer day grew cool and late, 

He went for the cows when the work was done; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 

He saw them coming one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass 
But who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 


The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 

October 19, 1864 


Up from the South at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain s door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon s bar ; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good broad highway leading down ; 

1 By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co. 

THE WAR 145 

And there, through the flash of the morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight ; 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with the utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon s mouth ; 

On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battlefield calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet the road 

Like a narrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape flowed away behind, 

Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire ; 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart s desire, 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. 
What was done? what to do? A glance told him both. 
Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 


He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, be 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 
By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril s play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day ! " 

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! 
Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! 
And when their statues are place/i on high 
Under the dome of the Union sky, 
The American soldier s Temple of Fame, 
There with the glorious General s name, 
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester, twenty miles away ! " 



[In "Bugle Echoes" Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this 
poem with the following note : " In one of the battles in Vir 
ginia a gallant young Mississippian had fallen, and at night, 
just before burying him, there came a letter from his be 
trothed. One of the burial group took the letter and laid it 
upon the breast of the dead soldier, with the words : Bury it 
with him. He ll see it when he wakes. "] 

Amid the clouds of battle-smoke 
The sun had died away, 

THE WAR 147 

And where the storm of battle broke 

A thousand warriors lay. 
A band of friends upon the field 

Stood round a youthful form 
Who, when the war-cloud s thunder pealed, 

Had perished in the storm. 
Upon his forehead, on his hair, 

The coming moonlight breaks, 
And each dear brother standing there 

A tender farewell takes. 

But ere they laid him in his home 

There came a comrade near, 
And gave a token that had come 

From her the dead held dear. 
A moment s doubt upon them pressed, 

Then one the letter takes, 
And lays it low upon his breast 

" He ll see it when he wakes." 
O thou who dost in sorrow wait, 

Whose heart with anguish breaks, 
Though thy dear message came too late, 

" He ll see it when he wakes." 

No more amid the fiery storm 

Shall his strong arm be seen ; 
No more his young and manly form 

Tread Mississippi s green; 
And e en thy tender words of love 

The words affection speaks 
Came all too late ; but oh ! thy love 

" Will see them when he wakes." 


No jars disturb his gentle rest, 
No noise his slumber breaks, 

But thy words sleep upon his breast 
" He ll see them when he wakes." 




The poplar drops beside the way 
Its tasseled plumes of silver gray ; 
The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient 
for the laggard May. 

The honeysuckles lace the wall ; 
The hyacinths grow fair and tall; 
And mellow sun, and pleasant wind, and odorous bees 
are over all. 

Down-looking in this snow-white bud, 
How distant seems the war s red flood! 
How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening 
scent of human blood ! 

For Nature does not recognize 
This strife that rends the earth and skies; 
No war-dreams vex the winter s sleep of clover-heads 
and daisy-eyes. 

THE WAR 149 

She holds her even way the same, 
Though navies sink, or cities flame : 
A snowdrop is a snowdrop still, despite the Nation s 
joy or shame. 

When blood her grassy altar wets, 
She sends the pitying violets 

To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it 
with soft regrets. 

O crocuses with rain-wet eyes, 
O tender-lipped anemones, 

What do you know of agony, and death, and blood- 
won victories? 

No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, 
Though near you rolls, with slow advance, 
Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguish- 
laden ambulance. 

Yonder a white encampment hums ; 
The clash of martial music comes ; 
And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the 
jar of drums. 

Whether it lessen or increase, 
Or whether trumpets shout or cease, 
Still, deep within your tranquil hearts, the happy bees 
are humming, " Peace ! " 

O flowers ! the soul that faints or grieves 
New comfort from your lips receives; 
Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your 
healing leaves. 


Help us to trust still on and on, 
That this dark night will soon be gone, 
And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red 
trouble of the dawn, 

Dawn of a broader, whiter day 
Then ever blessed us with its ray, 
A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and 
wrong shall fade away. 

Then shall our Nation break its bands, 
And, silencing the envious lands, 
Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless 
robe, and clean, white hands. 

Five Forks, April i, 1865 


Ho! pony. Down the lonely road 

Strike now your cheeriest pace! 
The woods on fire do not burn higher 

Than burns my anxious face ; 
Far have you sped, but all this night 

Must feel my nervous spur; 
If we be late, the world must wait 

The tidings we aver: 

THE WAR 151 

To home and hamlet, town and hearth, 

To thrill child, mother, man, 
I carry to the waiting North 

Great news from Sheridan ! 

The birds are dead among the pines, 

Slain by the battle fright, 
Prone in the road the steed reclines 

That never reached the fight ; 
Yet on we go, the wreck below 

Of many a tumbled wain, 
By ghastly pools where stranded mules 

Die, drinking of the rain; 
With but my list of killed and missed 

I spur my stumbling nag, 
To tell of death at many a tryst, 

But victory to the flag! 

" Halt ! who comes there ? The countersign ! " 

" A friend." " Advance ! The fight, 
How goes it, say? " " We won the day! " 

" Huzza ! Pass on ! " " Good-night ! " 
And parts the darkness on before, 

And down the mire we tramp, 
And the black sky is painted o er 

With many a pulsing camp; 
O er stumps and ruts, by ruined huts, 

Where ghosts look through the gloam, 
Behind my tread I hear the dead 

Follow the news toward home ! 

The hunted souls I see behind, 
In swamp and in ravine, 


Whose cry for mercy thrills the wind 

Till cracks the sure carbine; 
The moving lights, which scare the dark, 

And show the trampled place 
Where, in his blood, some mother s bud 

Turns up his young, dead face; 
The captives spent, whose standards rent 

The conqueror parades, 
As at the Five Forks roads arrive 

The General s dashing aides. 

wondrous Youth! through this grand ruth 
Runs my boy s life its thread; 

The General s fame, the battle s name, 
The rolls of maimed and dead 

1 bear, with my thrilled soul astir, 
And lonely thoughts and fears, 

And am but History s courier 
To bind the conquering years ; 

A battle-ray, through ages gray 
To light to deeds sublime, 

And flash the luster of this day 
Down all the aisles of Time ! 

Ho ! pony, tis the signal gun 

The night-assault decreed; 
On Petersburg the thunderbolts 

Crash from the lines of Meade; 
Fade the pale, frightened stars overhead, 

And shrieks the bursting air ; 
The forest foliage, tinted red, 

Grows ghastlier in the glare ; 

THE WAR 153 

Though in her towers, reached her last hours, 

Rocks proud Rebellion s crest 
The world may sag, if but my nag 

Get in before the rest! 

With bloody flank, and fetlocks dank, 

And goad, and lash, and shout 
Great God! as every hoof-beat falls 

A hundred lives beat out! 
As weary as this broken steed 

Reels down the corduroys, 
So, weary, fight for morning light 

Our hot and grimy boys; 
Through ditches wet, o er parapet 

And guns barbette, they catch 
The last, lost breach; and I, I reach 

The mail with my dispatch! 

Sure it shall speed, the land to read, 

As sped the happiest shell! 
The shot I send strike the world s end; 

This tells my pony s knell; 
His long race run, the long war done, 

My occupation gone, 
Above his bier, prone on the pier, 

The vultures fleck the dawn. 
Still, rest his bones where soldiers dwell, 

Till the Long Roll they catch. 
He fell the day that Richmond fell, 

And took the first dispatch ! 



Dated April 10, 1865, the Day After the Surrender at 

After four years of arduous service, marked by 
unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the Army of 
Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to 
overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not 
tell the survivors of so many hard-fought battles, who 
have remained steadfast to the last, that I have con 
sented to this result from no distrust of them; but, 
feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish 
nothing that could compensate for the loss that would 
have attended the continuation of the contest, I have 
determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those 
whose past services have endeared them to their coun 
trymen. By the terms of the agreement, officers and 
men can return to their homes and remain there until 
exchanged. You will take with you the satisfaction 
that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faith 
fully performed; and I earnestly pray that a merciful 
God will extend to you His blessing and protection. 
With an increasing admiration of your constancy and 
devotion to your country, and a grateful remembrance 
of your kind and generous consideration of myself, 
I bid an affectionate farewell. 

R. E. LEE, General. 

THE WAR 155 



From an Address Delivered at Charlcstown, Mass., 
June 17, 

The conflict is over ! Day by day the material evi 
dences of war fade from sight ; the bastions sink to the 
level of the ground which surrounded them ; scarp 
and counterscarp meet in the ditch which divided 
them. So let them pass away, forever ! 

To-day it is the highest duty of all, no matter on 
what side they were, but, above all, of those who have 
struggled for the preservation of the Union, to strive 
that it become one of generous confidence, in which 
all the States shall, as of old, stand shoulder to shoul 
der, if need be, against the world in arms. Towards 
those with whom we were lately in conflict, and who 
recognize that the results are to be kept inviolate, there 
should be no feeling of resentment or bitterness. They 
join with us in the wish to make of this regenerated 
Union a power grander and more august than the 
founders ever dared to hope. 

All true men are with the South in demanding for 
her, peace, order, good and honest governments, and 
encouraging in her the work of rebuilding all that has 
been made desolate. We need not doubt the issue. 
With the fire of her ancient courage, she will gird her 
self up to the emergencies of her new situation. Stand 
ing always in generous remembrance of every sec- 


tion of the Union, neither now nor hereafter will we 
distinguish between States or sections, in our anxiety 
for the glory and happiness of all. Together will we 
utter our solemn aspiration, in the spirit of the motto 
of the city which now incloses within its limits the 
battle-field and town for which the battle was fought : 
" As God was to our fathers, so may He be to us." 



I read last night of the Grand Review 

In Washington s chiefest avenue 
Two Hundred Thousand men in blue, 

I think they said was the number, 
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, 
The bugle blast and the drum s quick beat, 
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, 
The cheers of people who came to greet, 
And the thousand details that to repeat 

Would only my verse encumber, 
Till I fell in a revery, sad and sweet, 

And then to a fitful slumber. 

When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand 
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
Far stretched the portico; dim and grand 
Its columns ranged, like a martial band 
Of sheeted specters whom some command 
Had called to a last reviewing. 

THE WAR 157 

And the streets of the city were white and bare, 
No footfall echoed across the square; 
But out of the misty midnight air 
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 
And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear 
The sound of a far tattooing. 

Then I held my breath with fear and dread; 
For into the square, with a brazen tread, 
There rode a figure whose stately head 

O erlooked the review that morning, 
That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
When the living column passed its feet, 
Yet now rode steadily up the street 

To the phantom bugle s warning: 

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, 
And there in the moonlight stood revealed 
A well-known form that in state and field 

Had led our patriot sires; 
Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, 
Afar through the river s fog and damp, 
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, 

Nor wasted bivouac fires. 

And I saw a phantom army come, 
With never a sound of fife or drum, 
But keeping time to a throbbing hum 

Of wailing and lamentation : 
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, 
The men whose wasted figures fill 

The patriot graves of the Nation. 


And there came the nameless dead, the men 
Who perished in fever-swamp and fen, 
The slowly-starved of the prison-pen; 

And, marching beside the others, 
Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow s fight, 
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright: 
I thought perhaps twas the pale moonlight- 

They looked as white as their brothers ! 

And so all night marched the Nation s dead, 
With never a banner above them spread, 
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 
No mark save the bare uncovered head 

Of the silent bronze Reviewer; 
With never an arch save the vaulted sky; 
With never a flower save those that lie 
On the distant graves for love could buy 

No gift that was purer or truer. 

So all night long swept the strange array; 
So all night long, till the morning, gray, 
I watch d for one who had passed away, 

With a reverent awe and wonder, 
Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, 
And I knew that one who was kin of mine 
Had come; and I spake and lo! that sign 

Awakened me from my slumber. 

THE WAR 159 



Bring the good old bugle, boys; we ll sing another 


Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along, 
Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong, 
While we were marching through Georgia. 


Hurrah, hurrah! we bring the jubilee! 
Hurrah, hurrah ! the flag that makes you free ! 
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, 
While we were marching through Georgia. 

How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful 

sound ! 
How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary 

found ! 

How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, 
While we were marching through Georgia! 


Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful 

When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for 

years ; 
Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth 

in cheers 
While we were marching through Georgia! 



" Sherman s dashing Yankee boys will never reach the 

So the saucy rebels said, and twas a handsome 


Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host, 
While we were marching through Georgia! 


So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her 


Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main ; 
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, 
While we were marching through Georgia ! 




You of the North have had drawn for you with a 
master s hand the picture of your returning armies. 
You have heard how, in the pomp and circumstance of 
war, they came back to you, marching with proud and 
victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation s eyes. 
Will you bear with me while I tell you of another 
army that sought its home at the close of the late war 
an army that marched home in defeat and not in 
victory, in pathos and not in splendor? 

Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate sol 
dier, as, buttoning up his faded gray jacket, the 
parole which was the testimony to his children of his 

THE WAR 161 

fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from 
Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, 
half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and 
wounds; having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders 
his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, 
and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last 
time to the graves that dot the old Virginia hills, pulls 
his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and 
painful journey. 

What does he find let me ask you, who went to 
your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had 
justly earned, full payment for four years sacrifice 
what does he find when, having followed the battle- 
stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading 
death not half as much as surrender, he reaches the 
home he left so prosperous and beautiful? 

He finds his house in ruins, his farms devastated, 
his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his 
trade destroyed, his money worthless; his social sys 
tem, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his peo 
ple without law or legal status, his comrades slain, and 
the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed 
by defeat, his very traditions are gone ; without money, 
credit, employment, material, or training; and, be 
sides all this, confronted with the gravest problem that 
ever met human intelligence the establishing of a 
status for the vast body of his liberated slaves. 

What does he do this hero in gray with a heart of 
gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? 
Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him in 
his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin 
was never so overwhelming, never was restoration 


swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches, into 
the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns 
marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with 
blood in April were green with the harvest of June. 

Never was nobler duty confided to human hands 
than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and 
bleeding South, misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in 
her suffering. In the record of her social, industrial, 
and political evolution, we await with confidence the 
verdict of the world. 


ODE " 1 


Whither leads the path 
To ampler fates that leads ? 
Not down through flowery meads 
To reap an after-math 
Of youth s vainglorious weeds, 
But up the steep, amid the wrath 
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, 
Where the world s best hope and stay 
By battle s flashes gropes a desperate way, 
And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. 
Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, 
Ere yet the sharp, decisive word 
Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword 
Dreams in its easeful sheath ; 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houyhton, Mifflin & Co. 

THE WAR 163 

But some day the live coal behind the thought, 
Whether from Baal s stone obscene, 
Or from the shrine serene 
Of God s pure altar brought, 
Bursts up in flame ; the war of tongue and pen 
Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, 
And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, 
Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men : 
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed 
Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, 
And cries reproachful : " Was it, then, my praise, 
And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; 
I claim of thee the promise of thy youth ; 
Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, 
The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" 
Life may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field, 

So bountiful is Fate; 

But then to stand beside her, 

When craven churls deride her, 
To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 

This shows, methinks, God s plan 

And measure of a stalwart man, 

Limbed like the old heroic breeds, 
Who stand self-poised on manhood s solid earth, 
Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, 
Fed from within with all the strength he needs. 




How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their country s wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mold, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy s feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 



The last sunbeam 

Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, 
On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking 

Down a new-made double grave. 

1 By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Phila 



Lo! the moon ascending, 
Up from the east the silvery round moon, 
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, 

Immense and silent moon. 

I see a sad procession, 

And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, 
All the channels of the city streets they re flooding, 

As with voices and with tears. 

I hear the great drums pounding, 
And the small drums steady whirring, 
And every blow of the great convulsive drums 

Strikes me through and through. 

For the son is brought with the father, 
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, 
Two veterans, son and father, dropt together, 

And the double grave awaits them). 

Now nearer blow the bugles, 
And the drums strike more convulsive, 
And the daylight o er the pavement quite has faded, 

And the strong dead-march enwraps me. 

In the eastern sky up-buoying, 
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, 
( Tis some mother s large transparent face 

In heaven brighter growing). 

O strong dead-march you please me! 
O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe 


O my soldiers twain ! O my veterans passing to burial ! 
What I have I also give you. 

The moon gives you light, 
And the bugles and the drums give you music, 
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, 

My heart gives you love. 



We come, not to mourn our dead soldiers, but to 
praise them. For one, I have never liked, even from 
the first, to see, as so often is the case, the flag at 
half-mast upon Memorial Day. But if ever it was 
appropriate it long since ceased to be so. After so 
many years, tears no longer befit the place where the 
soldier lies in his last sleep. The bitter grief which 
their untimely deaths brought to so many hearts, 
Time, the all-healer, has mercifully soothed and soft 
ened into pathetic memories and pious veneration. 
Many who then mourned in all pain and passion of 
bereavement have themselves followed after, and are 
now at peace where there is no more sorrow nor cry 
ing, no more war and fighting, no more absence nor 

But while the reason for personal grief has been 
steadily diminishing with the lapse of time and with 
the passing away of those who once mourned, the 
reason for praising these men and honoring them in 


the eyes of the nation has been steadily increasing, as 
we have come to see more and more clearly the 
vast and ever-growing significance of that which they 
did. When our dead soldiers were brought home 
from battlefield or hospital to be laid in quiet graves, 
no man in all the land, not even he whose great 
prophetic soul conducted the nation to its final deliv 
erance, could possibly rise far enough above the 
clamor and the strife, the anguish and the agony of 
the time, or peer far enough into the cloudy and 
threatening future to see the half of what the dullest 
of us now sees of the greatness of the blessings which 
were to be purchased by those most pathetic sacrifices. 

What they died intent on witnessing, we have lived 
to see, the nation redeemed by the blood of its loyal 
sons, disenthralled from an ignoble bondage, purified 
of a loathsome leprosy, healed of what seemed a fatal 
breach among its members, rise, glad, proud, free, 
triumphant, jubilant, to address itself to the remaining 
problems of its existence, to do its appointed work for 
its own citizens and for all humanity, and to take its 
rightful place among the nations of the earth with a 
power not till then suspected, with a true national 
purpose that before had been doubtful, hesitating, and 
divided, with a real national character that had before 
been unformed, inconsistent, and weak. 

The nation they saved is in a high sense another na 
tion from that which they went to save, which they 
died hoping to save. It has at last a definite purpose. 
That purpose is resolute, considerate, peaceful, 
beneficent. It has at last an established character. 
That character is strong, loyal, acquisitive, enterpris- 


ing. The nation which amid general gloom and grief 
entered into that giant struggle, was at the best but in 
the second rank among the powers of the earth. The 
stain of human slavery defiled its flag and disfigured 
its escutcheon. Its industrial system was paralyzed 
along one entire side by laws which made labor dis 
honorable and defaced the image of God in man. The 
shameful sweat of unrequited toil and the poisonous 
blood that dripped from the lash were slowly steriliz 
ing one-half of its soil. Between the two sections, with 
their antagonistic civilizations, political passions had 
long been making ever deeper and deeper divisions. 

The nation which emerged from that struggle free, 
victorious, and forever united has already assumed 
the primacy among the nations; and its power for 
good, alike to its own citizenship and to all human 
kind, has scarcely yet been intimated to our feeble, 
faltering faith. The glorious mission to which it is 
called is to illustrate to the world the blessings of 
peace and liberty and educated labor. It was to 
achieve this mighty deliverance, it was to work this 
marvelous transformation that our brave soldiers died. 
Honor, then, immortal honor, to their memories ! 
Forever green be the graves in which they shall lie 
among a grateful people rejoicing in the benefits won 
by their heroic sacrifices and untimely death! 




The rain is plashing on my sill, 

But all the winds of heaven are still; 

And so, it falls with that dull sound 

Which thrills us in the churchyard ground, 

When the first spadeful drops like lead 

Upon the coffin of the dead. 

Beyond my streaming window-pane 

I cannot see the neighboring vane, 

Yet from its old familiar tower 

The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. 

What strange and unsuspected link 

Of feeling touched has made me think 

While with a vacant soul and eye 

I watch that gray and stony sky 

Of nameless graves on battle plains, 

Washed by a single winter s rains, 

Where, some beneath Virginian hills, 

And some by green Atlantic rills, 

Some by the waters of the West, 

A myriad unknown heroes rest. 

Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see 

Their flags in front of victory, 

Or, at their life-blood s noblest cost 

Pay for a battle nobly lost, 

Claim from their monumental beds 

The bitterest tears a nation sheds. 

Beneath yon lonely mound the spot, 

By all save some fond few forgot 


Lie the true martyrs of the fight, 

Which strikes for freedom and for right. 

Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, 

The lofty faith that with them died, 

No grateful page shall further tell 

Than that so many bravely fell; 

And we can only dimly guess 

What worlds of all this world s distress, 

What utter woe, despair, and dearth, 

Their fate has brought to many a hearth. 

Just such a sky as this should weep 

Above them, always, where they sleep; 

Yet, haply, at this very hour, 

Their graves are like a lover s bower ; 

And Nature s self, with eyes unwet 

Oblivious of the crimson debt 

To which she owes her April grace, 

Laughs gayly o er their burial place. 



Only a soldier s grave! Pass by, 
For soldiers, like other mortals, die. 
Parents he had they are far away; 
No sister weeps o er the soldier s clay ; 
No brother comes, with a tearful eye: 
It s only a soldier s grave pass by. 


True, he was loving, and young, and brave, 
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave; 
No proud recital of virtues known, 
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won ; 
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high ; 
Only a soldier s grave pass by. 

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight, 
And he gave his life in the cause of right! 
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream 
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream; 
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh ; 
Yet, tis only a soldier s grave pass by. 

Yet, should we mark it the soldier s grave, 
Some one may seek him in hope to save ! 
Some of the dear ones, far away, 
Would bear him home to his native clay ; 
Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh, 
Find not the hillock, and pass him by. 




" Is there any news of the war ? " she said. 

" Only a list of the wounded and dead," 

Was the man s reply, 

Without lifting his eye 

To the face of the woman standing by. 


" Tis the very thing I want," she said ; 

" Read me a list of the wounded and dead." 

He read the list twas a sad array 

Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray. 

In the very midst, was a pause to tell 
Of a gallant youth who fought so well 
That his comrades asked : " Who is he, pray ? " 
" The only son of the Widow Gray," 

Was the proud reply 

Of his captain nigh 
What ails the woman standing near? 
Her face has the ashen hue of fear ! 

" Well, well, read on ; is he wounded ? Quick ! 

O God! but my heart is sorrow-sick! 

Is he wounded ? " " No ; he fell, they say, 

Killed outright on that fatal day ! " 

But see, the woman has swooned away! 

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light ; 
Slowly recalled the events of the fight ; 
Faintly she murmured: " Killed outright! 
It has cost me the life of my only son; 
But the battle is fought, and the victory won ; 
The will of the Lord, let it be done! " 

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, 
And send from the halls of eternal day 
The light of his peace to illumine her way. 





Sleep, comrades ! sleep and rest 
On this field of grounded arms, 

Where foes no more molest, 
Nor sentry s shot alarms. 

Ye have slept on the ground before, 
And started to your feet 

At the cannon s sudden roar, 
Or the drum s redoubling beat. 

But in this camp of death 

No sound your slumber breaks ; 

Here is no fevered breath, 

No wound that bleeds and aches. 

All is repose and peace; 

Untrampled lies the sod ; 
The shouts of battle cease, 

It is the truce of God. 

Rest, comrades! rest and sleep! 

The thoughts of men should be 
As sentinels, to keep 

Your rest from dangers free. 

Your silent tents of green 

We deck with fragrant flowers; 

Yours has the suffering been, 
The memory shall be ours. 




Blessed is that country whose soldiers fight for it 
and are willing to give the best they have, the best that 
any man has, their own lives, to preserve it because 
they love it. Such an army the United States has 
always commanded in every crisis of her history. 
From the War of the Revolution to the late Civil 
War, the men followed that flag in battle because they 
loved that flag and believed in what it represented. 

That was the stuff of which the volunteer army of 
61 was made. Every one of them not only fought, 
but thought. And many of them did their own think 
ing and did not always agree with their commander. 
A young soldier in the late war was on the battle line 
ahead with the color-guard, bearing the stars and 
stripes way in front of the line, but the enemy still in 
front of him. The general called out to the color- 
bearer, " Bring those colors back to the line," and 
quicker than any bullet that young soldier answered 
back, " Bring the line up to the colors." It was the 
voice of command ; there was a man behind it, and 
there was patriotism in his heart. 

" So nigh is grandeur to our dust ; 

So near to God is man, 
When duty whispers low, Thou must/ 
The youth replies, 4 1 can. " 

And so, more than two million brave men thus re 
sponded and made up an army grander than any army 


that ever shook the earth with its tread, and engaged in 
a holier cause than ever engaged soldiers before. 

What defenders, my countrymen, have we now? 
We have the remnant of this old, magnificent, match 
less army, of which I have been speaking, and then 
as allies in any future war, we have the brave men 
who fought against us on Southern battlefields. The 
Army of Grant and the Army of Lee are together. 
They are one now in faith, in hope, in fraternity, in 
purpose, and in an invincible patriotism. And, there 
fore, the country is in no danger. In justice strong, in 
peace secure, and in devotion to the flag all one. 

Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C. 


Sleep sweetly in your humble graves 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause! 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause, 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold! your sisters bring their tears 
And these memorial blooms. 


Small tributes ; but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day 

Than when some cannon-molded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies 

By mourning beauty crowned. 


From an Ode on the Valor and Sufferings of 
Confederate Soldiers 


Four deadly years we fought, 
Ringed by a girdle of unfaltering fire 
That coiled and hissed in lessening circles nigher. 

Blood dyed the Southern wave ; 
From ocean border to calm inland river, 
( There was no pause, no peace, no respite ever. 

Blood of our bravest brave 
Drenched in a scarlet rain the western lea, 
Swelled the hoarse waters of the Tennessee, 
Incarnadined the gulfs, the lakes, the rills, 

And from a hundred hills 
Steamed in a mist of slaughter to the skies, 
Shutting all hope of heaven from mortal eyes. 


The Beaufort blooms were wither d on the stem; 

The fair Gulf City in a single night 

Lost her imperial diadem ; 
And wheresoe er men s troubled vision roamed 
They viewed Might towering o er the humbled crest of 
Right ! 

But for a time, but for a time, O God! 
The innate forces of our knightly blood 
Rallied, and by the mount, the fen, the flood, 

Upraised the tottering standards of our race. 
O grand Virginia! though thy glittering glaive 
Lies sullied, shattered in a ruthless grave, 

How it flashed once ! 

They dug their trenches deep 

(The implacable foe), they ranged their lines of wrath ; 
But watchful ever on the imminent path 

Thy steel-clad genius stood ; 

North, South, East, West, they strove to pierce thy 
shield : 

Thou wouldst not yield ! 

Until unconquered, yea, unconquered still 
Nature s weakened forces answered not thy will, 
And gored with wound on wound, 
Thy fainting limbs and forehead sought the ground ; 
And with thee, the young nation fell, a pall 
Solemn and rayless, covering one and all ! 

God s ways are marvelous ; here we stand to-day 
Discrown d, and shorn in wildest disarray, 
The mock of earth ! yet never shone the sun 
On sterner deeds, or nobler victories won. 


Not in the field alone ; ah, come with me 
To the dim bivouac by the winter s sea ; 
Mark the fair sons of courtly mothers crouch 

O er flickering fires; but gallant still, and gay 
As on some bright parade. Or mark the couch 

In reeking hospitals, whereon is laid 
The latest scion of a line perchance 
Whose veins were royal. Close your blurred romance, 
Blurred by the dropping of a maudlin tear, 
And watch the manhood here ; 

That firm but delicate countenance, 
Distorted sometimes by an awful pang, 
Borne in meek patience. When the trumpets rang 
" To horse ! " but yester-morn, that ardent boy 
Sprang to his charger, thrilled with hope and joy 
To the very finger-tips; and now he lies, 
The shadows deepening in those falcon eyes, 

But calm and undismayed 

As if the Death that chills him, brow and breast, 
Were some fond bride who whispered, " Let us rest ! " 

Enough! tis over! the last gleam of hope 
Hath melted from our mournful horoscope 

Of all, of all bereft; 

Only to us are left 

Our buried heroes and their matchless deeds. 
These cannot pass ; they hold the vital seeds 
Which in some far, untracked, unvisioned hour 
May burst to vivid bud and glorious flower. 

Meanwhile, upon the nation s broken heart 
Her martyrs sleep. Oh, dearer far to her 
Than if each son, a wreathed conqueror, 


Rode in triumphant state 

The loftiest crest of fate; 
Oh, dearer far, because outcast and low, 
She yearns above them in her awful woe. 





The wars we wage 

Are noble, and our battles still are won 

By justice for us, ere we lift the gage. 

We have not sold our loftiest heritage. 

The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat 

And scramble in the market place of war; 

Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. 

Here is her witness: this, her perfect son, 

This delicate and proud New England soul 

Who leads despised men, with just-unshackled feet, 

Up the large ways where death and glory meet, 

To show all peoples that our shame is done, 

That once more we are clean and spirit-whole. 

Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand 
All night he lay, speaking some simple word 
From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard, 
Holding each poor life gently in his hand 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin <5* Co. 


And breathing on the base rejected clay 

Till each dark face shone mystical and grand 

Against the breaking day; 

And lo, the shard the potter cast away 

Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine, 

Fulfilled of the divine 

Great wine of battle wrath by God s ring-finger stirred. 

Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed 

Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light, 

Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed, 

Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed 

They swept and died like freemen on the height, 

Like freemen, and like men of noble breed; 

And when the battle fell away at night 

By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust 

Obscurely in a common grave with him 

The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust. 

Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb 

In nature s busy old democracy 

To flush the mountain laurel when she blows 

Sweet by the southern sea, 

And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose: 

The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew 

This mountain fortress for no earthly hold 

Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old 

Of spiritual wrong, 

Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, 

Expugnable but by a nation s rue 

And bowing down before that equal shrine 

By all men held divine, 

Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign. 



On the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial on Boston 
Common, May 31, 1897 


Not with slow, funereal sound 
Come we to this sacred ground ; 
Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum, 
Bringing a cypress wreath 

To lay, with bended knee, 
On the cold brows of Death 
Not so, dear God, we come, 
But with the trumpets blare 
And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air, 
As for a victory ! 

Hark to the measured tread of martial feet, 
The music and the murmurs of the street ! 

No bugle breathes this day 

Disaster and retreat! 

Hark, how the iron lips 

Of the great battleships 
Salute the City from her azure Bay! 


Time was time was, ah, unforgotten years ! 
We paid our hero tribute of our tears. 
But now let go 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


All sounds and signs and formulas of woe: 
Tis Life, not Death, we celebrate; 
To Life, not Death, we dedicate 
This storied bronze, whereon is wrought 
The lithe immortal figure of our thought, 
To show forever to men s eyes, 
Our children s children s children s eyes, 
How once he stood 
In that heroic mood, 
He and his dusky braves 
So fain of glorious graves! 
One instant stood, and then 

Drave through that cloud of purple steel and flame, 
Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again, 
But in its trampled ashes left to Fame 
An everlasting name! 


That was indeed to live 

At one bold swoop to wrest 

From darkling death the best 

That death to life can give. 

He fell as Roland fell 

That day at Roncevaux, 
With foot upon the ramparts of the foe ! 

A paean, not a knell, 

For heroes dying so! 

No need for sorrow here, 

No room for sigh or tear, 
Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know. 

See where he rides, our Knight ! 

Within his eyes the light 


Of battle, and youth s gold about his brow ; 

Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross, 
Not weighing gain with loss 
World-loser, that won all 
Obeying duty s call! 
Not his, at peril s frown, 
A pulse of quicker beat ; 
Not his to hesitate 
And parley hold with Fate, 
But proudly to fling down 
His gauntlet at her feet. 

O soul of loyal valor and white truth, 
Here, by this iron gate, 

Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore, 
Stand thou for evermore 
In thy undying youth! 

The tender heart, the eagle eye ! 
Oh, unto him belong 
The homages of Song; 
Our praises and the praise 
Of coming days 
To him belong 
To him, to him, the dead that shall not die ! 



Once this soft turf, this rivulet s sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 


Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry, 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 

Who minglest in the harder strife 
For truths which men receive not now, 

Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 

Through weary day and weary year, 
A wild and many-weaponed throng 
.Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 

And blench not at thy chosen lot. 
The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 
For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 

The victory of endurance born. 


Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshipers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 
When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet s mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o er thy grave. 



Tell me what sail the seas 

Under the stars? 
Ships, and ships companies, 

Off to the wars. 

Steel are the ship s great sides, 

Steel are her guns, 
Backward she thrusts the tides, 

Swiftly she runs; 

Steel is the sailor s heart, 

Stalwart his arm, 
His the Republic s part 

Through cloud and storm. 


Tell me what standard rare 

Streams from the spars? 
Red stripes and white they bear, 

Blue, with bright stars : 

Red for brave hearts that burn 

With liberty, 
White for the peace they earn 

Making men free, 

Stars for the Heaven above, 

Blue for the deep, 
Where, in their country s love, 

Heroes shall sleep. 

Tell me why on the breeze 

These banners blow? 
Ships, and ships companies, 

Eagerly go 

Warring, like all our line, 

Freedom to friend 
Under this starry sign, 

True to the end. 

Fair is the Flag s renown, 

Sacred her scars, 
Sweet the death she shall crown 

Under the stars. 




Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation 
For our captains who loved not war, but fought for 

the life of the nation; 
Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, 

not peace; 
Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that 

war might cease. 

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled 

drums ; 
The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapped coffin 

comes ; 

Fame and honor and glory; and joy for a noble soul, 
For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the 


Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier 

prizes ; 
The league-long waving line as the marching falls and 

rises ; 
Rumbling of caissons and guns ; the clatter of horses 

And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Miffiin & Co. 


But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic 
sorrow ; 

Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to 
morrow ; 

Better than honor and glory, and history s iron pen, 

Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fel 



Oh, tell me not that they are dead that generous 
host, that airy army of invisible heroes ! They hover 
as a cloud of witnesses above this Nation. Are they 
dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a 
more universal language? Are they dead that yet 
act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and 
inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic 
patriotism? . . . 

Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured 
name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every 
valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register ; 
and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers for 
get to flow till the clouds are weary of replenishing 
springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to 
sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent hon 
ors which are inscribed upon the book of National Re 
membrance ! 




" Corporal Green ! " the Orderly cried ; 
" Here ! " was the answer loud and clear, 
From the lips of a soldier who stood near, 

And " Here ! " was the word the next replied. 

" Cyrus Drew ! " then a silence fell ; 

This time no answer followed the call ; 

Only his rear-man had seen him fall: 
Killed or wounded he could not tell. 

There they stood in the failing light, 

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 
As plain to be read as open books, 

While slowly gathered the shades of night 

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood, 
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew, 
Were redder stains than the poppies knew, 

And crimson-dyed was the river s flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side, 
That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire ; 

And their life-blood went to color the tide. 

" Herbert Cline! "At the call there came- 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
Bearing between them this Herbert Cline, 

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 


" Ezra Kerr ! " and a voice answered " Here ! " 
" Hiram Kerr ! " but no man replied. 
They were brothers, these two ; the sad wind sighed, 

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 

" Ephraim Deane ! " then a soldier spoke : 

" Deane carried our regiment s colors," he said, 
" When our ensign was shot ; I left him dead 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 

" Close to the roadside his body lies ; 

I paused a moment and gave him to drink ; 

He murmured his mother s name, I think, 
And Death came with it and closed his eyes." 

Twas a victory, yes ; but it cost us dear : 
For that company s roll, when called at night, 
Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 

Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!" 



Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung 

By peaceful rivers yet to flow ? 
Where bloom the smiles thy ready tongue 

Would call to lips that loved thee so ? 
On what far shore of being tossed, 

Dost thou resume the genial stave, 
And strike again the lyre we lost 

By Rappahannock s troubled wave? 


If that new world hath hill and stream, 

And breezy bank, and quiet dell, 
If forests murmur, waters gleam, 

And wayside flowers their story tell, 
Thy hand ere this has plucked the reed 

That wavered by the wooded shore ; 
Its prisoned soul thy fingers freed 

To float melodious evermore. 

So seems it to my musing mood, 

So runs it in my surer thought, 
That much of beauty, more of good, 

For thee the rounded years have wrought; 
That life will live, however blown 

Like vapor on the summer air ; 
That power perpetuates its own; 

That silence here is music there. 



Far up the lonely mountain-side 

My wandering footsteps led ; 
The moss lay thick beneath my feet, 

The pine sighed overhead. 
The trace of a dismantled fort 

Lay in the forest nave, 
And in the shadow near my path 

I saw a soldier s grave. 


The bramble wrestled with the weed 

Upon the lowly mound; 
The simple head-board, rudely writ, 

Had rotted to the ground ; 
I raised it with a reverent hand, 

From dust its words to clear, 
But time had blotted all but these 

" A Georgia Volunteer ! " 

I saw the toad and scaly snake 

From tangled covert start, 
And hide themselves among the weeds 

Above the dead man s heart; 
But undisturbed, in sleep profound, 

Unheeding, there he lay; 
His coffin but the mountain soil, 

His shroud Confederate gray. 

I heard the Shenandoah roll 

Along the vale below, 
I saw the Alleghanies rise 

Towards the realms of snow. 
The " Valley Campaign " rose to mind 

Its leader s name and then 
I knew the sleeper had been one 

Of Stonewall Jackson s men. 

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say 

Whose tongue will ever tell 
What desolated hearths and hearts 

Have been because he fell ? 


What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair, 
Her hair which he held dear? 

One lock of which perchance lies with 
The Georgia Volunteer! 

What mother, with long watching eyes, 

And white lips cold and dumb, 
Waits with appalling patience for 

Her darling boy to come? 
Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells up 

But one of many a scar, 
Cut on the face of our fair land, 

By gory-handed war. 

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, 

Are all unknown to fame; 
Remember, on his lonely grave 

There is not e en a name! 
That he fought well and bravely too, 

And held his country dear, 
We know, else he had never been 

A Georgia Volunteer. 

He sleeps what need to question now 

If he were wrong or right? 
He knows, ere this, whose cause was just 

In God the Father s sight. 
He wields no warlike weapons now, 

Returns no foeman s thrust 
Who but a coward would revile 

An honest soldier s dust? 


Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, 

Adown thy rocky glen, 
Above thee lies the grave of one 

Of Stonewall Jackson s men. 
Beneath the cedar and the pine, 

In solitude austere, 
Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 

A Georgia Volunteer. 



The muffled drum s sad roll has beat 

The soldier s last tattoo ; 
No more on Life s parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame s eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe s advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow s strife 

The warrior s dream alarms; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 


Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle s stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past ; 
Nor war s wild note nor glory s peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that nevermore may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or Death." 

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain; 


And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

Twas in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr s grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation s flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther s breath has swept 

O er Angostura s plain, 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moldered slain. 
The raven s scream, or eagle s flight, 

Or shepherd s pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land s heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave : 
She claims from war his richest spoil 

The ashes of her brave. 


Thus neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother s breast 

On many a bloody shield; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! 

Dear as the blood ye gave; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel s voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter s blight, 

Nor Time s remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory s light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 



On the Slain at Chickamauga 


Happy are they and charmed in life 

Who through long wars arrive unscarred 
At peace. To such the wreath be given, 
If they unfalteringly have striven 

In honor, as in limb, unmarred. 
Let cheerful praise be rife, 

And let them live their years at ease, 
Musing on brothers who victorious died 

Loved mates whose memory shall ever please. 

And yet mischance is honorable too 

Seeming defeat in conflict justified, 
Whose end to closing eyes is hid from view 
The will, that never can relent 
Long as the stars do gleam upon it 
Shall memory come to dream upon it. 



O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are 

contending ! 

Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory awaits us for 


Glory, that never is dim, shining on -with light never 

Glory that never shall fade, never, O never, away! 

O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly 

Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his 

Wet by a mother s warm tears. They crown him with 

garlands of roses, 

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he tri 
umphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for 

country hath perished ; 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 

with her smile; 

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cher 
ished ; 

Gods love the young who ascend pure from the 
funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river ; 
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling 


But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for 
ever ; 

There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
valiant, and free. 

O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front 

rank to perish, 

Firm with our breast to the foe, victory s shout in 
our ear ! 


Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our mem 
ory cherish ; 

We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the 
sweet music to hear. 



Not by the ball or brand 
Sped by a mortal hand, 
Not by the lightning stroke 
When fiery tempests broke, 
Not mid the ranks of War 
Fell the great Conqueror. 


Unmoved, undismayed, 

In the crash and carnage of the cannonade, 

Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed not, 

Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed not, 

Steel nerve, iron form, 

The dauntless spirit that o erruled the storm. 


While the Hero peaceful slept 
A foeman to his chamber crept, 
Lightly to the slumberer came, 
Touched his brow and breathed his name : 
O er the stricken form there passed 
Suddenly an icy blast. 



The Hero woke, rose undismayed, 
Saluted Death, and sheathed his blade. 

The Conqueror of a hundred fields 
To a mightier Conqueror yields; 
No mortal foeman s blow 
Laid the great Soldier low : 
Victor in his latest breath 
Vanquished but by Death. 



Four hundred thousand men 
The brave the good the true, 

In tangled wood, in mountain glen, 

On battle plain, in prison pen, 
Lie dead for me and you! 

Four hundred thousand of the brave 

Have made our ransomed soil their grave, 

For me and you ! 
Good friend, for me and you ! 

In many a fevered swamp, 

By many a black bayou, 
In many a cold and frozen camp, 
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp, 

And died for me and you ! 


From western plain to ocean tide 

Are stretched the graves of those who died 

For me and you ! 
Good friend, for me and you! 

On many a bloody plain 

Their ready swords they drew, 
And poured their life-blood like the rain 
A home a heritage to gain, 

To gain for me and you! 
Our brothers mustered by our side ; 
They marched, they fought, and bravely died 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you ! 

Up many a fortress wall 

They charged those boys in blue 
Mid surging smoke, the volley d ball ; 
The bravest were the first to fall ! 

To fall for me and you ! 
These noble men the Nation s pride 
Four hundred thousand men have died 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you ! 

In treason s prison-hold 

Their martyr spirits grew 
To stature like the saints of old, 
While amid agonies untold, 

They starved for me and you ! 


The good, the patient, and the tried, 
Four hundred thousand men have died 

For me and you ! 
Good friend, for me and you ! 

A debt we ne er can pay 

To them is justly due, 
And to the Nation s latest day 
Our children s children still shall say, 

" They died for me and you ! " 
Four hundred thousand of the brave 
Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave, 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you ! 


" Now all your victories are in vain." 

Because you passed, and now are not 
Because in some remoter day 

Your sacred dust in doubtful spot 
Was blown of ancient airs away 
Because you perished must men say 

Your deeds were naught, and so profane 
Your lives with that cold burden ? Nay, 

The deeds you wrought are not in vain. 


Though it may be, above the plot 

That hid your once imperial clay, 
No greener than o er men forgot 

The unregarding grasses sway; 

Though there no sweeter is the lay 
Of careless bird; though you remain 

Without distinction of decay, 
The deeds you wrought are not in vain. 

No, for while yet in tower or cot 

Your story stirs the pulse s play, 
And men forget the sordid lot 

The sordid cares of cities gray ; 

While yet they grow for homelier fray 
More strong from you, as reading plain 

That Life may go, if Honor stay, 
The deeds you wrought are not in vain. 


Heroes of old, I humbly lay 

The laurel on your graves again; 

Whatever men have done, men may 
The deeds you wrought are not in vain. 




At the Burial of Grant, a Bugler Stood Forth and 
Sounded "Taps" 

Come, soldiers, arouse ye ! 

Another has gone ; 
Let us bury our comrade, 

His battles are done. 
His sun it is set ; 

He was true, he was brave, 

He feared not the grave, 
There is naught to regret. 

Bring music and banners 

And wreaths for his bier, 
No fault of the fighter 

That Death conquered here. 
Bring him home ne er to rove, 

Bear him home to his rest, 

And over his breast 
Fold the flag of his love. 

Great Captain of battles, 

We leave him with Thee ! 
What was wrong, O forgive it ; 

His spirit make free. 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, MifRin & Co. 


Sound taps, and away! 

Out light, and to bed ! 

Farewell, soldier dead! 
Farewell for a day. 



The band was playing " Dixie " when he marched, 

marched away; 

An never any likelier lad stept time to it that day; 
" The finest fellow of em all ! " I heard the town-folk 

The band was playin " Dixie " as he marched, 

marched away. 

How fast my wild arms held him, my boy, who would 

not stay, 
The likeliest lad that answered to the captain s call 

that day ! 

" The finest fellow of em all ! " An in the red array 
Of flags that rippled over them they marched my lad 


But a mother s fears and prayers and tears were 

nothing. War must slay, 
And the draped, deep drums were muffled as they 

brought him home that day ! 
" The finest fellow of em all ! " I heard the town-folk 

And his mother bendin over him, dead at her feet 

that day ! 





When the opulence of summer unto wood and meadow 

And within the tangled graveyard riot old-time spice 

and bloom, 
Then dear Nature brings her tribute to the " smallest 

of the drums," 

Spreads the sweetest of her blossoms on the little 
soldier s tomb. 

In the quiet country village, still they tell you how he 

And the story moves you strangely, more than other 

tales of war. 

Thrice heroic seems the hero, if he be a child beside, 
And the wound that tears his bosom is more sad 
than others far. 

In the ranks of Sherman s army none so young and 

small as he, 
With his face so soft and dimpled, and his innocent 

blue eyes. 
Yet of all the Union drummers he could drum most 


With a spirit said his colonel fit to make the dead 
arise ! 


In the charge of Chickamauga (so, beside his little 

You may learn the hero s story of some villager, 

When his regiment sank, broken, from the rampart, 

like a wave, 

Thrice the clangor of his drum-beat rallied to a 
fresh advance. 

There he stood upon the hillside, capless, with his 

shining hair 
Blown about his childish forehead like the bright 

silk of the corn ; 
And the men looked up and saw him standing brave 

and scathless there, 
As an angel on a hilltop, in the drifting mist of morn. 

Thrice they rallied at his drum-beat, then the tat 
tered flag went down ! 

Someone caught it, waved it skyward for a mo 
ment, and then fell. 
In the dust, the gore, and drabble, all the stars of 

freedom s crown, 

And the soldiers beaten backward from the emblem 
loved so well! 

Then our drummer-boy, our hero, from his neck the 

drum-cord flung 

And amid- the hail of bullets to the fallen banner 


Quick he raised it from dishonor; quick before them 

all he sprung, 

And in fearless, proud defiance, waved the old flag 
o er his head! 

For a minute s space the cheering, louder than the sing 
ing balls, 
And the soldiers pressing forward, closing up their 

broken line, 
Then the child s bright head, death-stricken, on his 

throbbing bosom falls, 

And the brave eyes that God lighted cease with life 
and soul to shine. 

In the flag he saved they wrapped him ; in that starry 

shroud he lies, 
And the roses, and the lilacs, and the daisies seem to 


For in all that peaceful acre, sleeping neath the sum 
mer skies, 

There is neither mound nor tablet that is wreathed 
and guarded so ! 



" At dawn," he said, " I bid them all farewell, 
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam." 

And with the restless thought asleep he fell, 
And glided into dream. 


A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread, 
Through it a level river slowly drawn; 

He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head 
Streamed banners like the dawn. 

There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar, 
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay ; 

Blood trickled down the river s reedy shore, 
And with the dead he lay. 

The morn broke in upon his solemn dreams, 
And still with steady pulse and deepening eye, 

" Where bugles call," he said, " and rifles gleam, 
I follow, though I die ! " 

Wise youth ! By few is glory s wreath attained ; 

But death, or late or soon, awaiteth all, 
To fight in Freedom s cause is something gained, 

And nothing lost to fall. 



The heart swells with unwonted emotion when we 
remember our sons and brothers, whose constant valor 
has sustained on the field the cause of our country, 
of civilization, and liberty. On the ocean, on the riv 
ers, on the land, on the heights where they thundered 
down from the clouds of Lookout Mountain the de- 


fiance of the skies, they have graven with their swords 
a record imperishable. 

The Muse herself demands the lapse of silent years 
to soften, by the influence of time, her too keen and 
poignant realization of the scenes of War, the pathos, 
the heroism, the fierce joy, the grief of battle. But 
during the ages to come she will brood over their 
memory. Into the hearts of her consecrated priests 
she will breathe the inspirations of lofty and undying 
beauty, sublimity, and truth, in all the glowing forms 
of speech, of literature, and plastic art. By the homely 
traditions of the fireside, by the headstones in the 
churchyard consecrated to those whose forms repose" 
far off in rude graves, or sleep beneath the sea, em 
balmed in the memories of succeeding generations of 
parents and children, the heroic dead will live on in 
immortal youth. 

The bell which rang out the Declaration of Inde 
pendence has found at last a voice articulate, to " pro 
claim liberty throughout all the land unto all the in 
habitants thereof." It has been heard across oceans, 
and has modified the sentiments of cabinets and kings. 
The people of the Old World have heard it, and their 
hearts stop to catch the last whisper of its echoes. The 
poor slave has heard it; and with bounding joy, tem 
pered by the mystery of religion, he worships and 
adores. The waiting continent has heard it, and al 
ready foresees the fulfilled prophecy, when she will sit 
" redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled by the 
irresistible Genius of Universal Emancipation." 




Come up from the fields, father, here s a letter from 

our Pete, 
And come to the front door, mother, here s a letter 

from thy dear son. 

Lo, tis autumn, 

Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, 

Cool and sweeten Ohio s villages with leaves flutter 
ing in the moderate wind, 

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes 
on the trellis d vines, 

( Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines ? 

Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately 

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after 
the rain, and with wondrous clouds, 

Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful and the 
farm prospers well. 

Down in the fields all prospers well, 

But now from the fields come, father, come at the 

daughter s call, 
And come to the entry, mother, to the front door come 

right away. 

1 By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Phila 


Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her 
steps trembling, 

She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her 

Open the envelope quickly, 

O this is not our son s writing, yet his name is sign d, 

O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken 
mother s soul ! 

All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she 
catches the main words only, 

Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cav 
alry skirmish, taken to hospital, 

At present low, but will soon be better. 

Ah now the single figure to me, 

Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities 

and farms, 
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very 

By the jamb of a door leans. 

Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter 
speaks through her sobs, 

The little sisters huddle around speechless and dis 
may d,) 

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be 

Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be 
needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,) 

While they stand at home at the door he is dead al 

The only son is dead. 


But the mother needs to be better, 

She with thin form presently drest in black, 

By day her meals untouch d, then at night fitfully 

sleeping, often waking, 
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one 

deep longing, 
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from 

life escape and withdraw, 
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. 



Father ! whose hard and cruel law 

Is part of thy compassion s plan, 
Thy works presumptuously we scan 

For what the prophets say they saw. 

Unbidden still, the awful slope 

Walling us in, we climb to gain 
Assurance of the shining plain 

That faith has certified to hope. 

In vain : beyond the circling hill 

The shadow and the cloud abide ; 
Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide 

To trust the Record and be still ; 


To trust it loyally as he 

Who, heedful of his high design, 
Ne er raised a seeking eye to thine, 

But wrought thy will unconsciously, 

Disputing not of chance or fate, 

Nor questioning of cause or creed : 
For anything but duty s deed 

Too simply wise, too humbly great. 

The cannon syllabled his name; 

His shadow shifted o er the land, 
Portentous, as at his command 

Successive cities sprang to flame ! 

He fringed the continent with fire, 
The rivers ran in lines of light! 
Thy will be done on earth if right 

Or wrong he cared not to inquire. 

His was the heavy hand, and his 
The service of the despot blade ; 
His the soft answer that allayed 

War s giant animosities. 

Let us have peace : our clouded eyes 
Fill, Father, with another light, 
That we may see with clearer sight 

Thy servant s soul in Paradise. 


New York, August 8, 1885 


Ye living soldiers of the mighty war, 

Once more from roaring cannon and the drums 
And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes; 
Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar; 
Once more your Captain calls to you ; 
Come to his last review ! 

And come ye, too, bright spirits of the dead, 

Ye who went heavenward from the embattled field ; 
And ye whose harder fate it was to yield 
Life from the loathful prison or anguished bed : 
Dear ghosts ! come join your comrades here 
Beside this sacred bier. 

Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band, 

Warriors of ages past, and our own age, 
Who drew the sword for right, and not in rage, 
Made war that peace might live in all the land, 
Nor ever struck one vengeful blow, 
But helped the fallen foe. 

And fail not ye but, ah, ye falter not 
To join his army of the dead and living, 
Ye who once felt his might, and his forgiving : 

1 By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote. 
For all his countrymen make room 
By our great hero s tomb ! 

Come soldiers, not to battle as of yore, 

But come to weep ; ay, shed your noblest tears ; 
For lo, the stubborn chief, who knew not fears, 
Lies cold at last, ye shall not see him more. 
How long grim Death he fought and well, 
That, poor, lean frame doth tell. 

All s over now; here let our Captain rest, 
Silent amid the blare of praise and blame ; 
Here let him rest, alone with his great fame, 
Here in the city s heart he loved the best, 
And where our sons his tomb may see 
To make them brave as he : 

As brave as he he on whose iron arm 

Our Greatest leaned, our gentlest and most wise, 
Leaned when all other help seemed mocking lies, 
While this one soldier checked the tide of harm, 
And they together saved the State, 
And made it free and great. 



Here rest the great and good, here they repose 
After their generous toil. A sacred band, 
They take their sleep together, while the year 


Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves, 

And gather them again, as winter frowns. 

Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher, green sods 

Are all their monument; and yet it tells 

A nobler history than pillared piles, 

Or the eternal pyramids. They need 

No statue nor inscription to reveal 

Their greatness. It is round them ; and the joy 

With which their children tread the hallowed ground 

That holds their venerated bones, the peace 

That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth 

That clothes the land they rescued, these, though 


As feeling ever is when deepest, these 
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes 
Reared to the kings and demi-gods of old. 
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade 
Over the lowly graves; beneath their boughs 
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon, 
Suited to such as visit at the shrine 
Of serious liberty. No factious voice 
Called them unto the field of generous fame, 
But the pure consecrated love of home. 
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes 
In all its greatness. It has told itself 
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, 
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, 
Where first our patriots sent the invader back, 
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all 
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. 
Their feelings were all nature ; and they need 
No art to make them known. They live in us, 


While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, 
Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts 
And the one universal Lord. They need 
No column pointing to the heaven they sought 
To tell us of their home. The heart itself, 
Left to its own free purposes, hastens there, 
And there alone reposes. Let these elms 
Bend their protecting shades o er their graves, 
And build with their green roof the only fane, 
Where we may gather on the hallowed day, 
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory. 
Here let us meet ; and while our motionless lips 
Give not a sound, and all around is mute 
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full 
For words or tears, here let us strew the sod 
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them 
An offering of the plenty Nature gives, 
And they have rendered ours, perpetually. 



O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought 
is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring ; 

1 By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Phila 


But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 
Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle 

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the 

shores acrowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 

turning ; 

Here Captain! dear father! 
This arm beneath your head! 
It is some dream that on the deck 
You ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor 

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed 

and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob 
ject won ; 

Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 




By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead: 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the one, the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory, 
In the dusk of eternity meet: 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe: 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment-day; 


Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor, 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender, 
On the blossoms blooming for all : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 

On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done, 
In the storm of the years that are fading 
No braver battle was won : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever, 
Or the winding rivers be red; 


They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



Land of the South, whose stricken heart and brow 
Bring grief to eyes that erewhile only knew 

For their own loss to sorrow, spurn not thou 
These tribute tears, ah, we have suffered too. 

New Orleans, 1885. 

The Blue and the Gray 


A waste of land, a sodden plain, 

A lurid sunset sky, 
With clouds that fled and faded fast 

In ghastly phantasy ; 


A field upturned by trampling feet, 

A field up-piled with slain, 
With horse and rider blent in death 

Upon the battle-plain. 

Two soldiers, lying as they fell 

Upon the reddened clay, 
In daytime, foes ; at night, in peace, 

Breathing their lives away. 
Brave hearts had stirred each manly breast ; 

Fate only made them foes; 
And lying, dying, side by side, 

A softened feeling rose. 

" Our time is short," one faint voice said. 

To-day we ve done our best 
On different sides. What matters now? 

To-morrow we re at rest. 
Life lies behind. I might not care 

For only my own sake ; 
But far away are other hearts 

That this day s work will break. 

" Among New Hampshire s snowy hills 

There pray for me, to-night, 
A woman, and a little girl, 

With hair like golden light." 
And at the thought broke forth, at last 

The cry of anguish wild 
That would no longer be repressed 

" O God! my wife and child! " 


" And," said the other dying man, 

" Across the Georgia plain 
There watch and wait for me loved ones 

I ll never see again. 
A little girl with dark bright eyes 

Each day waits at the door ; 
The father s step, the father s kiss, 

Will never meet her more. 

" To-day we sought each other s lives ; 

Death levels all that now, 
For soon before God s mercy-seat 

Together shall we bow. 
Forgive each other while we may; 

Life s but a weary game ; 
And right or wrong, the morning sun 

Will find us dead the same." 

The dying lips the pardon breathe, 

The dying hands entwine ; 
The last ray dies, and over all 

The stars from heaven shine; 
And the little girl with golden hair, 

And one with dark eyes bright, 
On Hampshire s hills and Georgia plain, 

Were fatherless that night 



From an Address by General John B. Gordon, Gov 
ernor of Georgia, July 3, 1888 

Of all the martial virtues, the one which is perhaps 
most characteristic of the truly brave is the virtue of 
magnanimity. That sentiment, immortalized by Scott 
in his musical and martial verse, will associate for 
all time the name of Scotland s king with those of 
the great spirits of the past. How grand the exhibi 
tions of the same generous impulses that characterize 
this memorable battlefield ! My fellow-countrymen of 
the North, if I may be permitted to speak for those 
whom I represent, let me assure you that in the pro- 
foundest depths of their nature, they reciprocate that 
generosity with all the manliness and sincerity of which 
they are capable. In token of that sincerity they join 
in consecrating, for annual patriotic pilgrimage, these 
historic heights, which drank such copious draughts 
of American blood, poured so freely in discharge of 
duty, as each conceived it, a Mecca for the North, 
which so grandly defended, a Mecca for the South, 
which so bravely and persistently stormed it. We join 
you in setting apart this land as an enduring monu 
ment of peace, brotherhood, and perpetual union. I 
repeat the thought with emphasis, with singleness of 
heart and of purpose, in the name of a common coun 
try, and of universal liberty ; and by the blood of our 
fallen brothers, we unite in the solemn consecration 


of these hallowed hills, as a holy, eternal pledge of 
fidelity to the life, freedom, and unity of this cher 
ished Republic. 



Over their graves rang once the bugle s call, 
The searching shrapnel and the crashing ball; 
The shriek, the shock of battle, and the neigh 
Of horse ; the cries of anguish and dismay ; 
And the loud cannon s thunders that appall. 

Now through the years the brown pine-needles fall, 
The vines run riot by the old stone wall, 
By hedge, by meadow streamlet, far away, 
Over their graves. 

We love our dead where er so held in thrall. 

Than they no Greek more bravely died, nor Gaul 
A love that s deathless ! but they look to-day 
With no reproaches on us when we say, 

" Come, let us clasp your hands, we re brothers all, 
Over their graves ! " 




Each thin hand resting on a grave, 

Her lips apart in prayer, 
A mother knelt, and left her tears 

Upon the violets there. 
O er many a rood of vale and lawn, 

Of hill and forest gloom, 
The reaper Death had reveled in 

His fearful harvest home. 
The last unquiet summer shone 

Upon a fruitless fray; 
From yonder forest charged the blue 

Down yonder slope the gray. 

The hush of death was on the scene, 

And sunset o er the dead, 
In that oppressive stillness, 

A pall of glory spread. 
I know not, dare not question how 

I met the ghastly glare 
Of each upturned and stirless face 

That shrunk and whitened there. 
I knew my noble boys had stood 

Through all that withering day, 
I knew that Willie wore the blue, 

That Harry wore the gray. 

I thought of Willie s clear blue eye, 
His wavy hair of gold, 


That clustered on a fearless brow 

Of purest Saxon mold ; 
Of Harry, with his raven locks 

And eagle glance of pride; 
Of how they clasped each other s hand 

And left their mother s side ; 
How hand in hand they bore my prayers 

And blessings on the way 
A noble heart beneath the blue, 

Another neath the gray. 

The dead, with white and folded hands, 

That hushed our village homes, 
I ve seen laid calmly, tenderly, 

Within their darkened rooms ; 
But there I saw distorted limbs, 

And many an eye aglare, 
In the soft purple twilight of 

The thunder-smitten air. 
Along the slope and on the sward 

In ghastly ranks they lay, 
And there was blood upon the blue 

And blood upon the gray. 

I looked and saw his blood, and his ; 

A swift and vivid dream 
Of blended years flashed o er me, when, 

Like some cold shadow, came 
A blindness of the eye and brain 

The same that seizes one 
When men are smitten suddenly 

Who overstare the sun ; 


And while, blurred with the sudden stroke 

That swept my soul, I lay, 
They buried Willie in his blue, 

And Harry in his gray. 

The shadows fall upon their graves ; 

They fall upon my heart ; 
And through the twilight of this soul 

Like dews the tears will start; 
The starlight comes so silently 

And lingers where they rest ; 
So hope s revealing starlight sinks 

And shines within my breast. 
They ask not there, where yonder heaven 

Smiles with eternal day, 
Why Willie wore the loyal blue, 

Why Harry wore the gray. 



The broad, deep Americanism which pulses through 
the great heart of the Republic to-day will grow 
broader and deeper with the passing years. I am 
thankful that I have lived to see this noble result of 
the war springing into vast and virile life. The pas 
sions of the titanic struggle will finally enter upon the 


sleep of oblivion, and only its splendid accomplishments 
for the cause of human freedom and a united nation, 
stronger and richer in patriotism because of the great 
strife, will be remembered. 



I ve been thinkin of it over, an* it pears to me to 

The war s the biggest blessin that has ever come our 

Course, thar ll be some fightin , an a few more 
graves ll be 

Whar the daisies in the medder look their purtiest at 

For that s to be expected; but the thing that makes 
me feel 

That the war s a heavenly blessin is the wounds that 
it ll heal! 

The old wounds that s been ranklin sence the day that 
Gin rul Lee 

Said we d rest an think it over by that old-time apple- 

I see the boys that fit us in the Union coats of blue 
On the same groun , hale an hearty, an a-shakin 
howdy-do ! 


An I hear the ban play " Dixie," an I see em march 

Till I can t tell whar the blue is, an I m mixed up on 

the gray ! 

The old war tunes air ringin , an " Dixie s " on the 

rise ; 
But " Yankee Doodle " follers fore it s half-way to the 

skies ! 
An the old " Star Spangled Banner " is in ever 

steeple s chime, 
An I tell you, we re a-having of a hallelujah time! 

I m glad I ve lived to see it; I m glad the time is come 
When, North an South, we answer to the roll-call of 

the drum! 
When thar ain t no line divides us, but North an South 

we stan 
For jest one common country, one freedom-lovin 

Ian ! 

That s whar the war s a blessin , that s whar pears like 

I see 
A brighter mornin breakin on the hills for you an* 

It s shoulder now to shoulder, thar ain t no blue or 

An we re shoutin " Hallelujah," an we re happy on 

the way! 




I remember well the way 
She looked up at me that day 
When I first put on the gray, 

And said good-by, back there in sixty-three. 
She and I were sweethearts then, 
And I hear her voice again, 

As she nestled up to me, 
Saying, in her gentle way : 
" Ah, how brave you look in gray, 
And how tall and handsome, too, 
Gray s the color, dear, for you ! " 

There s a ragged suit of gray 
She has long had laid away, 

There are memories that cling around it, too ; 
But the years have come and gone, 
And at present I have on 

A suit of Uncle Sam s beloved blue. 

When she saw me yesterday, 

She wiped a tear away 

For the memory of the gray, 

That dear, old, ragged suit of sixty-three. 
And sfae sweetly spoke again, 
Spoke more fervently than then, 

As she nestled up to me, 


Saying, in her gentle way : 
" Ah, how brave you looked in gray ! 
But you re braver still in blue, 
Blue s the color, dear, for you ! " 

The Old Soldier Speaks 


I fought under Lee and Stonewall, 

And I hated a Yankee like sin, 
But gimme my uniform, sergeant, 

I m going to fight ag in. 

I took out my old gray clothes last night, 
I thought of the day they was new, 

And I looked at the holes in the left-hand sleeve 
Where a minie ball went through. 

And I heard the band play " Dixie,", 

By God ! I heard every note, 
And I thought of Manassas and Shiloh, 

And a lump came up in my throat. 

And I said, " Go back to that old oak chest, 
There ain t no more service for you ; 

I m goin to fight on the side that s right, 
And I m going to wear the blue ! " 


There s just one thought in every heart, 

One word in every mouth ; 
For things is all so twisted around 

That there ain t no North nor South. 

I never thought it would come to this; 

It s strange, but I reckon it s true; 
For it s jest one country and jest one flag, 

And we re all a-wearin the blue ! 



The true grandeur of passing historic events is not 
seen till the noise and obstruction of the factitious andU 
perishable are forgotten. So the relative importance - 
of our late war is not yet realized. Forts and trenches 
have been obliterated ; harvests wave on its battlefields, 
and the grass is green above the ashes of its victims. 
The prejudices and passions kindled by the strife have 
been laid, and we now contemplate, with serene and 
undistempered vision, the causes and nature of the 
sanguinary conflict. We do not forget its burdens; 
but we remember its compensations. The supremacy 
of the federal government, within the limitations of the 
fundamental law, is the only secure and stable founda 
tion of the Union, and it must be maintained without 
compromise, in peace as in war. 

The sons of the South are a noble stock. We re- 


spect the honesty of their convictions, and honor the 
virility with which they defended them. We would 
seek the cordial and conciliatory course of kindred, 
and would let the " dead past bury its dead/ When 
the pride of exploded opinions, and the old war-cries 
of party, shall have been silenced in the graves of ante 
bellum politicians, the new generation will recognize 
and maintain that sovereignty of the Union which is 
essential to the development and defense of the high 
est welfare of all sections. The foreshadowed destiny 
of the Nation can only be imperiled by the loss of pop 
ular intelligence and morality. Common influences 
and interests will assimilate our whole population in 
habits and feeling, and they will come to cherish the 
same objects of pride and aspiration. This will be the 
future cement of the State, and the source of its united 
strength and glory. The day is not far distant when 
the South, equally with the North, will perceive that 
they builded better than they knew. 

As an exhibition of physical prowess, the conten 
tion was magnificent! Both armies fought, for their 
convictions, with a relentlessness of valor unsur 
passed. The campaigns of the war, and the subse 
quent financial achievements, have revealed to the 
world a strength and integrity worthy of the ancient 
mold of men. The blood of the North and the South 
has mingled in a conflict of political principles. May 
it nourish no root of bitterness ; but may there hence 
forth be a union of affections and labors to advance 
and perpetuate the dignity and grandeur of a com 
mon country. I protest, in the name of the dead 
and the peace of posterity, that the issues adjudicated 


in honorable warfare shall not be raised again, like in- 
quiet ghosts, into the arena of politics, to disturb the 
peace and prosperity of the Nation. We honor the 
valor and manliness of the South, and will respect her 
rights. We demand the same, and no more. On that 
platform we can stand together, and against the world. 
The substantial interests of both sections are one ; and 
henceforth their union shall be one and inseparable. 
In the fraternal emulations of business and the health 
ful rivalries of honorable politics, we must labor for 
the purity, power, and glory of the Republic. The old 
hearthstone is broad enough for all, and our household 
gods are worthy of our worship. We feel a special 
tenderness for our native State; but there is a pro- 
founder love and a more comprehensive patriotism 
than this, that throbs in the heart of every loyal Amer 
ican. The State is but a unit of that organic and 
august whole, our Country; in whose destiny are in 
volved the welfare and power of each member. The 
bright examples and splendid achievements of the Na 
tion must remain ours to emulate. " The whole land 
is the sepulcher of illustrous men," and their hal 
lowed dust, not less than their works, and their fame, 
are the common treasure of all. 

The beacons which we kindle will fade, and the 
chiseled rock will crumble; but the intellectual and 
moral life evolved by the freedom of the State will 
transmit the lineaments of the national spirit, in im 
perishable forms of thought. When the sculptured 
marbles, the gorgeous temples, and the noblest monu 
ments which a proud and grateful country can raise 
shall have completed their short-lived immortality, 


these will still survive, the inextinguishable lights of 
a Christian Commonwealth. 



The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub 

Was seized by an eagle, and carried up, 

And homed for awhile in an eagle s nest, 

And slept for a while on an eagle s breast; 

And the eagle taught it the eagle s song: 

" To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong ! " 

The lion whelp sprang from the eyrie nest, 
From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest ; 
He fought the King on the spreading plain, 
And drove him back o er the foaming main. 
He held the land as a thrifty chief, 
And reared his cattle, and reaped his sheaf, 
Nor sought the help of a foreign hand, 
Yet welcomed all to his own free land ! 

Two were the sons that the country bore 
To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore; 
And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son, 
And Industry lived with the Northern one. 
Tears for the time when they broke and fought! 
Tears was the price of the union wrought! 
And the land was red in a sea of blood, 
Where brother for brother had swelled the flood ! 


And now that the two are one again, 
Behold on their shield the word " Refrain ! " 
And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle s song : 
" To be stanch, and valiant, and free, and strong ! " 
For the eagle s beak, and the lion s paw, 
And the lion s fangs, and the eagle s claw, 
And the eagle s swoop, and the lion s might, 
And the lion s leap, and the eagle s sight, 
Shall guard the flag with the word " Refrain! " 
Now that the two are one again ! 



Yes, John, I was down thar at Memphis, 

A-workin* around at the boats, 
A-heavin o cotton with emph sis, 

An a-loadin her onto the floats. 
I was comin away from Ole Texas, 

Whar I went, you know, arter the wah- 
Bout it now I ll make no reflexes, 

But wait till I git ter long taw. 

Well, while I was down thar the fever, 

As yaller an pizen as sin, 
Broke out; an ef you ll believe her, 

Wharever she hit she struck in! 
It didn t take long in the hatchin , 

It jes fa rly bred in the air, 
Till a hosspitel camp warn t a patchin 

An we d plenty o corpses to spare. 


I volunteer d then with the Howards, 

I thought thet my duty was clear, 
An I didn t look back ards, but for ards, 

An went ter my work ithout fear. 
One day, howsomever, she got me 

As quick as the shot of a gun, 
An they toted me off ter allot me 

A bunk till my life-race was run. 

The doctor and nurses they wrestled, 

But it didn t do me any good; 
An the drugger he poundid an pestled, 

But he didn t get up the right food. 
" No blankits ner ice in the city ! " 

I hear d em say that from my bed, 
An some cried, " O God ! who ll take pity 

On the dyin that soon ill be dead ? " 

Next day, howsomever, the doctor 

Come in with a smile on his brow, 
" Old boy, jest as yit we hain t knocked her," 

Said he, " but we ll do fer her now ! " 
Fer, yer see, John, them folks ter the Nor ward 

Hed hear d us afore we call d twice, 
An they d sent us a full cargo forward 

Of them much needed blankits an ice ! 

Well, brother, I ve been mighty solid 
Agin Yankees, yer know, since the wah, 

An agin* reconstrucktin was stolid, 
Not kearin fer Kongriss ner law; 


But, John, I got under that kiver, 
That God-blessed gift o the Yanks, 

An it sav d me frum fordin " the river," 
An I m prayin em oceans o thanks! 

I tell yer, old boy, thar s er streak in us 

Old Rebels an Yanks thet is warm; 
It s er brotherly love thet ll speak in us, 

An fetch us together in storm: 
We may snarl about " niggers an francheese," 

But whenever thar s sufferin afoot, 
The two trees ll unite in the branches 

The same as they do at the root ! 



They ve named a cruiser " Dixie," that s whut the 

papers say, 
An I hears they re goin to man her with the boys 

that wore the gray; 
Good news ! It sorter thrills me, an makes me want 

ter be 
Whar the ban is playin " Dixie," an the Dixie puts 

ter sea! 

They ve named a cruiser " Dixie." An , fellers, I ll 

be boun 
You re goin ter see some fightin when the Dixie 

swings aroun ! 


Ef any o them Spanish ships shall strike her, East 

or West, 
Jest let the ban play " Dixie," an the boys ll do the 


I want to see that Dixie t I want ter take my stan 
On the deck of her and holler: "Three cheers fer 

Dixie Ian ! " 
She means we re all united, the war hurts healed 

An " Way Down South in Dixie " is national to-day ! 

I bet you she s a good un! I ll stake my last red 

Thar ain t no better timber in the whole blame settle 

An all their shiny battleships beside that ship air 

Fer, when it comes to " Dixie," thar s somethin in a 

Here s three cheers an a tiger, as hearty as kin be; 
An let the ban play " Dixie " when the Dixie puts ter 

She ll make her way an win the day from shinin East 

to West- 
Jest let the ban play " Dixie," an the boys ll do the 




I86 3 

From shuddering trees and painted leaves 

Strew redder dyes of crimson sod; 
And brave men lie in ghastly sheaves, 

As whirled there by the wrath of God. 
Gray vapors hum with wings of death, 

Whose roll-call speeds its fierce alarms; 
And life sighs, " Here! " with parting breath, 

Where bleeding thousands ground their arms. 
For brothers face each other s steel, 
Grim suitors in the last appeal. 


From laughing leas the bugles sing, 

More shrill than bird to nesting mate ; 
O er tented slopes the war notes ring, 

And time again the tramp of fate. 
Bright oriflamme of liberty, 

Our bannered blazon flaunts the sky, 
And hails the " sun-burst " in the sea, 

A gallant people s anguished cry. 
Now, brothers, touch in common weal 
To right that foreign wrong with steel. 


From Baltimore News 

They are camped on Chickamauga! 

Once again the white tents gleam 
On that field where vanished heroes 

Sleep the sleep that knows no dream. 
There are shadows all about them 

Of the ghostly troops to-day, 
But they light the common camp-fire, 

Those who wore the blue and gray. 

Where the pines of Georgia tower, 

Where the mountains kiss the sky, 
On their arms the Nation s warriors 

Wait to hear the battle-cry, 
Wait together, friends and brothers, 

And the heroes neath their feet 
Sleep the long and dreamless slumber 

Where the flowers are blooming sweet 

Sentries, pause, yon shadow challenge ! 

Rock-ribbed Thomas goes that way, 
He who fought the foe unyielding 

In that awful battle fray. 
Yonder pass the shades of heroes, 

And they follow where Bragg leads 
Through the meadows and the river, 

But no ghost the sentry heeds. 


Field of fame, a patriot army 

Treads thy sacred sod to-day ! 
And they ll face a common foeman, 

Those who wore the blue and gray, 
And they ll fight for common country, 

And they ll charge to victory 
Neath the folds of one brave banner, 

Starry banner of the free ! 

They are camped off Chickamauga, 

Where the green tents of the dead 
Turn the soil into a glory 

Where a Nation s heart once bled ; 
But they re clasping hands together 

On this storied field of strife, 
Brothers brave who meet to battle 

In the freedom-war of life ! 



From Address Delivered July 4, 1887, at Austin, 
Tex., Before the Surviving Veterans of Hood s 
Texas Brigade 

But few of you are here to-day. The great majority 
of your old comrades fill unknown graves, with naught 
to mark their silent resting-places ; but their names are 
embalmed in as many loving hearts as ever entwined 


around living, or lingered around the graves of de 
ceased, patriots. And to-day, as our memory recalls 
face after face of this vast spectral army, of those 
who have preceded us in the line of march to the 
silent shores, we shed the tear of affectionate remem 
brance, as echo gives praises to their memory and 
honor to their dust. Throughout the broad area of 
the world there never was a field more rich in facts 
which constitute the fiber of an earnest, active patri 
otism, than that found in the Southern struggle. And 
the lofty admiration in which your manhood, valor, and 
endurance, as well as the sublime resignation with 
which you accepted disappointment after great hopes 
and greater efforts, are held all over the world, shows 
how much the world yet values true and brave men, 
who could shake off troubles as great as these were, 
and by heroic efforts, in a time of peace, make them, 
to an impoverished country, but as flaxen withes bound 
around a slumbering giant. What wonder the world 
has stood amazed at the persistent vitality of our peo 
ple? for, under your admirable conduct, every barrier 
to the flow of capital, or check to the development of 
our unbounded resources, was removed. 

We see here to-day a free and independent mingling 
of men from every section of our broad domain, all 
prejudices of the past forgotten; and while our State 
has been fortunate in acquiring thousands of those 
who fought against us, and who are an honor both to 
the States which gave them birth, and ours which they 
have made their home, it matters not whence they 
come ; they can exult in the reflection that our Country 
is the same, and they find floating here the same ban- 


ner that waved above them there, with its broad folds 
unrent, and its bright stars unobscured; and in its 
defense, if needs be, the swords of those old Confed 
erates, so recently sheathed, would leap forth with 
equal alacrity with those of the North. 

No nobler emotion can fill the breast of any man 
than that which prompts him to utter honest praise 
of an adversary whose convictions and opinions are 
at war with his own ; and where is there a Confederate 
soldier in our land who has not felt a thrill of gener 
ous admiration and applause for the pre-eminent hero 
ism of the gallant Federal admiral, who lashed him 
self to the mainmast, while the tattered sails and 
frayed cordage of his vessel were being shot away by 
piecemeal, above his head, and slowly but surely picked 
his way through sunken reefs of torpedoes, whose de 
structive powers consigned many of his luckless com 
rades to watery graves? The fame of such men as 
Farragut, Stanley, Hood, and Lee, and the hundreds 
of private soldiers who were the true heroes of the 
war, belongs to no time or section, but is the common 
property of mankind. They were all cast in the same 
grand mold of self-sacrificing patriotism, and I intend 
to teach my children to revere their names as long 
as the love of country is respected as a noble sentiment 
in the human breast. 

It is a remarkable fact that those who bore the 
brunt of the battle were the first to forget old ani 
mosities and consign to oblivion obsolete issues. They 
saw that nothing but sorrow and shame, and the loss 
of the respect of the world, was to be gained by per 
petuating the bitterness of past strife; and, impelled by 


a spirit of patriotism, they were willing, by all pos 
sible methods, to create and give utterance to a public 
sentiment which would best conserve our common in 
stitutions and restore that fraternal concord in which 
the war of the Revolution left us, and the Federal 
Constitution found us. And I emphasize the declara 
tion that, in most instances, those whose hatred has 
remained implacable, through all these years of peace, 
are men who held high carnival in the rear, and, after 
all danger had passed, emerged from their hiding- 
places, filled with ferocious zeal and courage, blind to 
every principle of wise statesmanship, to make amends 
for lack of deeds of valor by pressing to their lips the 
sweet cup of revenge, for whose intoxicating contents 
our country has already paid a price that would have 
purchased the goblet of the Egyptian queen. 



Don t you hear the tramp of soldiers? 

Don t you hear the bugles play? 
Don t you see the muskets flashing 

In the sunlight far away? 
Don t you feel the ground all trembling 

Neath the tread of many feet ? 
They are coming, tens of thousands, 

To the army and the fleet. 


They are Yankees, they are Johnnies, 

They re for North and South no more; 
They arc one, and glad to follow 

When Old Glory goes before. 
From Atlantic to Pacific, 

From the Pine Tree to Lone Star, 
They are gath ring round Old Glory, 

And they re marching to the war. 

Don t you see the harbors guarded 

By those bristling dogs of war ? 
Don t you hear them growling, barking, 

At the fleet beyond the bar? 
Don t you hear the Jack Tars cheering, 

Brave as sailor lads can be? 
Don t you see the water boiling 

Where the squadron put to sea? 

They are Yankees, they are Johnnies, 

They re for North and South no more; 
They are one, and glad to follow 

When Old Glory goes before. 
From Atlantic to Pacific, 

From the Pine Tree to Lone Star, 
They have gathered round Old Glory, 

And they re sailing to the war. 

Don t you hear the horses prancing? 

Don t you hear the sabers clash? 
Don t you hear the cannons roaring? 

Don t you hear the muskets crash? 


Don t you smell the smoke of battle? 

Oh, you ll wish that you had gone, 
When you hear the shouts and cheering 

For the boys who whipped the Don! 

There ll be Yankees, there ll be Johnnies, 

There ll be North and South no more, 
When the boys come marching homeward 

With Old Glory borne before. 
From Atlantic to Pacific, 

From the Pine Tree to Lone Star, 
They ll be one beneath Old Glory 

After coming from the war. 



On the fourth of July, 1888, the battlefield of Get 
tysburg was made memorial of the prediction uttered 
by President Lincoln at its dedication as a national 
cemetery in 1864, that " The nation shall, under God, 
have a new birth of power " ; and that " government 
of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not 
perish from the earth." 

The contest of 1861-65 removed from the national 
life that serious element of danger which the fathers 
left for their posterity to settle. The rights of all 
sections rested upon one charter. The moral law of 


abstract right did not harmonize with the possessory 
rights of a well-accepted legal status, and only a char 
ity and wisdom more than human could bring a full 
accord without the crucial test of arms. The more 
powerful North bent its vast energies of numbers and 
wealth to preserve the Union of the States. The 
South, inferior in numbers and resources, affirmed with 
equal spirit its right of withdrawal, unless the legal 
tolerations of the Constitution should have their full 
est effect. The issue joined, satisfied all interests, 
after marvelous sacrifice; and the Union is clothed 
with fresh strength and more permanent beauty. Al 
ready a sense of relief from the estrangement of 
brethren which harassed the original colonies, and 
worried the nation to the verge of ruin, inspires poets 
and orators with enlarged faith in the national future. 
Already the republic, purified by fire and by blood, 
looks backward, to honor with fresh enthusiasm each 
recurring anniversary of the nation s birth, and then, 
in the glory of a second birth, turns forward, to con 
centrate its vision as through the perspective glass of 
Bunyan, upon the development of an " indestructible 
Union of indestructible States." 

The ordeal of arms came to an end ! The lingering 
ordeal of cooling passion has entered upon a fraternal 
solution. Impartial history softens the hardness of 
old-time antagonisms, and magnifies the patriotism of 
a people which can conquer self to bless the many. 
Mr. Curtis, the orator of Gettysburg, only voiced the 
sentiment of all " good-willing men on earth " as he 
said, " If there be joy in heaven this day, it is in the 
heart of Abraham Lincoln as he looks down upon the 


field of Gettysburg." To General Gordon, the very 
ground seemed holy, as if the union of the Blue and 
the Gray, in dust, only typified a spiritual union above, 
and their benediction on the survivors who gain a more 
enduring fellowship through their mingled blood. 
" No conflict now ! " was the breathing of General 
Devens when he welcomed the visiting soldiers of the 
South at the Bunker Hill celebration in Charlestown, 
Massachusetts, June 17, 1875. " The moral sentiment 
of the nineteenth century has ended slavery!" was 
the great utterance of Justice Lamar, as he unveiled 
the statue of John C. Calhoun, at Charleston, South 
Carolina, April 26, 1888. The heart-longing of Alex 
ander H. Stephens as he watched the unveiling of Car 
penter s picture of the Signing of the Emancipation 
Proclamation, " Separate as billows, but one as the 
sea ! " finds responsive prayer in every loyal American 
soul. " Again brethren and equals ! " rings out, in 
the voice of ex-Senator Patterson, while he assists to 
dedicate a monument to the sons of New Hampshire 
who fell in the great contest. " Under the same ban 
ner now, its folds unrent, and its bright stars unob- 
scured," is the sentiment through which Governor 
Ross, of Texas, calls upon the veterans of Hood s 
Texas Brigade, July 4, 1887, to welcome their brethren 
of the North into a full identity of interest, State and 
nation. " Let us rejoice together! " is the jubilant re 
frain of General George A. Sheridan in his apotheosis 
to " Immortal Heroes," when, with outstretched arm, 
he swings out the banner of our love, that all shall 
see in its clustered constellation the full roster of all 
the planets present. 


Oliver Perry Morton, in his last speech made in his 
own State, Indiana, on Decoration Day, 1877, thus 
spoke : 

We will let by-gones be by-gones. We cannot forget the 
past, we ought not to forget it. True reconciliation does 
not require us to forget these dead, does not require us to 
forget the living soldier, and to cease to do him justice. 
We say to those who were on the other side of that great 
contest, that while we shall forever cherish the lessons that 
were taught us by that great struggle, all we ask of them 
is, that they shall hereafter stand upon these principles : the 
great doctrine of equal liberty, and of equal rights to all, 
and equal protection to all, and, let us go forward, hand 
in hand, and as Americans and brethren, through all the 
future pages of our country s history. 

In like spirit, William H. Fleming, on a Memorial 
Day, at Augusta, Georgia, April 28, 1885, thus spoke : 

Without abating one jot or tittle of loyal devotion to the 
memory of our Confederate dead, we can here, in the presence 
of their graves, turn our eye to heaven and exclaim, Thank 
God! slavery, that material curse and moral incubus, has 
been lifted from our sky! Yes! even though it could spend 
its fury only in the lightning and thunder of war. No State 
will ever again resort to secession from the Union, as a 
remedy for wrongs present or prospective. Mr. Webster s 
prayer is answered; for the sun will never again shine upon 
" the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious 
Union; upon States discordant, dissevered, belligerent." The 
motto upon the ensign of the republic, now full high and 
advanced, is, by universal consent, " Liberty and Union, now 
and forever, one and inseparable." 

The dream of the Massachusetts poet, Duganne, had 
its marvelous realization; but the soldiers and states- 


men of all sections now sympathize with all bereaved 
ones, and recognize the valor of all who passed under 
the flail of discipline which his enthusiasm invoked. 



A cloud possessed the hollow field, 

The gathering battle s smoky shield. 

Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, 

And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, 

And from the heights the thunder pealed. 

Then at the brief command of Lee 
Moved out that matchless infantry, 
With Pickett leading grandly down, 
To rush against the roaring crown 
Of those dread heights of destiny. 

Far heard above the angry guns 

A cry across the tumult runs, 

The voice that rang through Shiloh s woods 

And Chickamauga s solitudes, 

The fierce South cheering on her sons ! 

Ah, how the withering tempest blew 
Against the front of Pettigrew ! 
A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed 
Like that infernal flame that fringed 
The British squares at Waterloo! 


A thousand fell where Kemper led ; 
A thousand died where Garnett bled: 
In blinding flame and strangling smoke 
The remnant through the batteries broke 
And crossed the works with Armistead. 

" Once more in Glory s van with me ! " 
Virginia cried to Tennessee; 
" We two together, come what may, 
Shall stand upon these works to-day ! " 
(The reddest day in history.) 

Brave Tennessee! In reckless way 
Virginia heard her comrade say: 
"Close round this rent and riddled rag!" 
What time she set her battle-flag 
Amid the guns of Doubleday. 

But who shall break the guards that wait 
Before the awful face of Fate? 
The tattered standards of the South 
Were shriveled at the cannon s mouth, 
And all her hopes were desolate. 

In vain the Tennesseean set 
His breast against the bayonet ! 
In vain Virginia charged and raged, 
A tigress in her wrath uncaged, 
Till all the hill was red and wet ! 

Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, 
Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost 


Receding through the battle-cloud, 
And heard across the tempest loud 
The death-cry of a nation lost ! 

The brave went down ! Without disgrace 
They leaped to Ruin s red embrace. 
They only heard Fame s thunders wake, 
And saw the dazzling sun-burst break 
In smiles on Glory s bloody face ! 

They fell, who lifted up a hand 
And bade the sun in heaven to stand ! 
They smote and fell, who set the bars 
Against the progress of the stars, 
And stayed the march of Motherland ! 

They stood, who saw the future come 
On through the fight s delirium! 
They smote and stood, who held the hope 
Of nations on that slippery slope 
Amid the cheers of Christendom. 

God lives ! He forged the iron will 
That clutched and held that trembling hill. 
God lives and reigns ! He built and lent 
The heights for Freedom s battlement 
Where floats her flag in triumph still ! 

Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns ! 
Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. 
A mighty mother turns in tears 
The pages of her battle years, 
Lamenting all her fallen sons! 




Oh, the roses we plucked for the blue 
And the lilies we twined for the gray, 

We have bound in a wreath, 

And in silence beneath 

Slumber our heroes to-day. 

Over the new-turned sod 

The sons of our fathers stand, 

And the fierce old fight 

Slips out of sight 

In the clasp of a brother s hand. 

For the old blood left a stain 
That the new has washed away, 

And the sons of those 

That have faced as foes 
Are marching together to-day. 

Oh, the blood that our fathers gave! 

Oh, the tide of our mothers tears ! 
And the flow of red, 
And the tears they shed, 

Embittered a sea of years. 

But the roses we plucked for the blue, 
And the lilies we twined for the gray, 


We have bound in a wreath, 
And in glory beneath 

Slumber our heroes to-day. 



Twine laurels to lay o er the Blue and the Gray, spread 
wreaths where our heroes rest ; 

Let the song of the North echo back from the South 
for the love that is truest and best ! 

Twin wreaths for the tombs of our Grant and our 
Lee, one anthem for Jackson and Meade. 

And the flag above you is the banner for me one peo 
ple in name and in deed! 


Clasp hands o er the graves where our laureled ones lie 

clasp hands o er the Gray and the Blue ; 
To-day we are brothers and bound by a tie that the 

years shall but serve to renew ; 
By the side of the Northman who peacefully sleeps 

where tropical odors are shed, 
A son of the South his companionship keeps one flag 

o er the two heroes spread. 



Weave tokens of love for the heroes in blue, weave 
wreaths for the heroes in gray ; 

Clasp brotherly hands o er the graves that are new 
for the love that is ours to-day ; 

A trinity given to bless, to unite three glorious rec 
ords to keep, 

And a kinship that never a grievance shall sever re 
newed where the brave are asleep! 


Spread flowers to-day o er the Blue and the Gray 

spread wreaths where our heroes rest; 
Let the song of the North echo back from the South 

for the love that is truest and best! 
Twin wreaths for the tombs of our Grant and our Lee, 

one hymn for your father and mine ! 
Oh, the flag you adore is the banner for me, and its 

folds our dead brothers entwine. 



More than twenty years have passed since the last 
great battle in our civil contest was fought. The 
mighty armies of the nation have long since folded 
their torn banners, stacked their muskets, and doffed 
their uniforms. The bugles that of old sounded the 


charge, and the drums that beat to battle, are now 
silent. The blades that flashed, and the bayonets that 
gleamed above their surging columns, no longer catch 
the sunlight. Grass grows in the fields whereon they 
struggled, and the rustle of ripened grain is heard 
where, but a while ago, the ring of steel made music 
that set men s blood aflame. 

What was our war ? How should it be looked upon ? 
It was not the result of men s ambition, North or 
South. It was not a contest for territory. It could 
not have been prevented, although it might have been 
postponed, by the action of any political party. Our 
war was simply fighting out, upon a new field, and 
under more enlightened auspices, a contest that had 
been waged for centuries among the people from 
whose loins we sprung. It was the clash of two- 
civilizations, so antagonistic in their conceptions, so 
antipodal in their means and methods of development, 
as to make impossible harmony of action, or peaceful 
growth side by side. The North and South were in 
direct opposition as to the best methods of governing 
and perpetuating the heritage left them by their 
fathers. Their conceptions were so radically different, 
that peaceful measures could not adjust or reconcile 
them. One or the other must yield. 

War came! The land that had known but peace 
echoed to the tread of armed men ! Up from the land 
of the orange and the myrtle came mighty hosts, har 
nessed for conflict, chanting songs of battle, eager for 
the fight, sweeping with as fiery courage and as daunt 
less bearing to the onset as of old the men from out 
whose loins they sprung charged Saracenic hosts, or 


closed in deadly grapple with the knightly sons of 
France. From the land of the fir and the pine, down 
from its mountains and out from its valleys, glittering 
with steel, and bright with countless banners, steady 
and strong, the men of the North marched to the 

A hush as of death filled the land, as the mighty 
hosts confronted each other. An instant, and the 
heavens seemed rent asunder, and the solid globe to 
reel. North and South had met in the shock of war! 
Blood deluged the land; the ear of pity deaf; the 
springs of love dried up; the throb of mighty guns; 
the gleam of myriad blades ; the savage shouts of men 
grappling each other in relentless clutch; Death, pale, 
pitiless, tireless, thrusting his awful sickle into harvest 
fields, where the grain was human life; bells from 
every steeple in the land tolling out their solemn notes 
of sorrow for the slain; fathers, mothers, wives, and 
little ones smiting their palms in agony together, as 
they looked upon the features of their loved ones mar 
bled in the eternal sleep! 

For four long bitter years the mighty tide of war 
rolled through the land, engulfing in its crimson flood 
the best and bravest of the North and South, bearing 
their souls outwards, with resistless sweep, to that 
dread sea whose shores, to human eyes, are viewless, 
whose somber waves are ever chanting solemn requiems 
for the dead ! In this wild storm of war the banners 
of the South went down. The bells of liberty through 
all the land rang out a joyous peal of welcome, and 
guns from fortress, field, and citadel thundered greet 
ing to the hour that proclaimed America one and in- 


divisible. From southern gulf to northern lakes, from 
northern lakes to Atlantic and Pacific coasts, we were 
ONE. The Mississippi flowed not along the borders 
of a dozen empires ; the blue waters fo the lakes beat 
not upon the shores of rival governments; the moun 
tains of the land frowned not down upon hostile ter 
ritories; the ocean bore not upon its bosom the fleets 
of contending States; but over all the land a single 
flag threw out its folds, symbol of victory, index of a 
reunited people. 

We recall the glories and the triumphs of the Union, 
not for the purpose of humiliating the gallant souls 
that battled against us. In the providence of God, the 
struggle they made to rend us asunder has but strength 
ened the bonds of our union. Those who fought 
against us are now of us, and enjoy the countless 
blessings that have come from the triumph of the 
Union, and with us they should bow their heads and 
reverently acknowledge that above all the desires of 
men move the majestic laws of God, evolving, alike 
from victory or defeat of nations, substantial good for 
all His children. 





The Colonel was the idol of his bragging old regi 
ment and of the bragging brigade which for the last 
six months he had commanded. 

He was the idol, not because he was good and 
gracious, not because he spared his soldiers or treated 
them as fellow-citizens, but because he had led them 
to victory and made them famous. If a man will win 
battles and give his brigade a right to brag loudly of 
its doings, he may have its admiration, and even its 
enthusiastic devotion, though he be as pitiless and as 
wicked as Lucifer. 

" It s nothin to me what the Currnell is in prrivit, 
so long as he shows us hpw to whack the rrebs," said 
Major Gahogan, commandant of the " Old Tenth." 
" Moses saw God in the burrnin bussh, an bowed 
down to it, an worrshipt it. It wasn t the bussh he 
worrshipt; it was his God that was in it. An I 
worrship this villin of a Currnell (if he is a villin) 
because he s almighty and gives us the vict ry. He s 
nothin but a human burrnin bussh, perhaps, but he s 
got the god of war in um. Adjetant Wallis, it s a 
long time between dhrinks, as I think ye was sayin , 
an with rayson. See if ye can t condiscate a canteen 
of whiskee somewhere in the camp. Bedad, if I can t 



buy it I ll stale it. We re goin to fight to-morry, an 
it may be it s the last chance we ll have for a dhrink, 
unless there s more lik r now in the other worrld than 
Dives got." 

The brigade was bivouacked in some invisible region, 
amid the damp, misty darkness of a September night. 
The men lay in their ranks, each with his feet to the 
front and his head rearward, each covered by his 
overcoat and pillowed upon his haversack, each with 
his loaded rifle nestled close beside him. Asleep as 
they were, or dropping placidly into slumber, they 
were ready to start in order to their feet and pour 
out the red light and harsh roar of combat. There 
were two lines of battle, each of three regiments of in 
fantry, the first some two hundred yards in advance 
of the second. In the space between them lay two 
four-gun batteries, one of them brass twelve-pounder 
" Napoleons," and the other rifled Parrotts. To the 
rear of the infantry were the recumbent troopers and 
picketed horses of a regiment of cavalry. All around, 
in the far, black distance, invisible and inaudible, paced 
or watched stealthily the sentinels of the grand guards. 

There was not a fire, nor a torch, nor a star-beam in 
the whole bivouac to guide the feet of Adjutant Wal- 
lis in his pilgrimage after whisky. The orders from 
brigade headquarters had been strict against illumina 
tions, for the Confederates were near at hand in 
force, and a surprise was purposed as well as feared. 
A tired and sleepy youngster, almost dropping with 
the heavy somnolence of wearied adolescence, he stum 
bled on through the trials of an undiscernible and un 
familiar footing, lifting his heavy riding boots slug- 


gishly over imaginary obstacles, and fearing the while 
lest his toil were labor misspent. It was a dry camp, 
he felt dolefully certain, or there would have been 
more noise in it. He fell over a sleeping Sergeant, 
and said to him hastily, " Steady, man a friend ! " as 
the half-roused soldier clutched his rifle. Then he 
found a Lieutenant, and shook him in vain ; further on 
a Captain, and exchanged saddening murmurs with 
him; further still a camp-follower of African extrac 
tion, and blasphemed him. 

" It s a God-forsaken camp, and there isn t a horn 
in it," said Adjutant Wallis to himself as he pursued 
his groping journey. " Bet you I don t find the first 
drop," he continued, for he was a betting boy, and 
frequently argued by wagers, even with himself. " Bet 
you two to one I don t. Bet you three to one ten to 

Then he saw, an indefinite distance beyond him, 
burning like red-hot iron through the darkness, a lit 
tle scarlet or crimson gleam, as of a lighted cigar. 

"That s Old Crumps, of the Bloody Fourteenth," 
he thought. " I ve raided into his happy sleeping- 
grounds. I ll draw on him." 

But Old Crumps, otherwise Colonel Lafayette Gil- 
dersleeve, had no rations that is, no whisky. 

" How do you suppose an officer is to have a drink, 
Lieutenant?" he grumbled. 

" Don t you know that our would-be Brigadier sent 
all the commissary to the rear day before yesterday? 
A canteenful can t last two days. Mine went empty 
about five minutes ago." 

" Oh, thunder ! " groaned Wallis, saddened by that 


saddest of all thoughts ; " too late ! Well, least 
said soonest mended. I must wobble back to my 

" He ll send you off to some other camp as dry as 
this one. Wait ten minutes, and he ll be asleep. Lie 
down on my blanket and light your pipe. I want to 
talk to you about official business about our would-be 

" Oh, your turn will come some day," mumbled 
Wallis, remembering Gildersleeve s jealousy of the 
brigade commander, a jealousy which only gave 
tongue when aroused by commissary. If you do 
as well as usual to-morrow you can have your own 

" I suppose you think we are all going to do well 
to-morrow," scoffed Old Crumps, whose utterance by 
this time stumbled. " I suppose you expect to whip 
and to have a good time. I suppose you brag on fight 
ing and enjoy it." 

" I like it well enough when it goes right ; and it gen 
erally does go right -with this brigade. I should like 
it better if the rebs would fire higher and break 

" That depends on the way those are commanded 
whose business it is to break them," growled Old 
Crumps. " I don t say but what we are rightly com 
manded," he added, remembering his duty to superiors. 
" I concede and acknowledge that our would-be Brig 
adier knows his military business. But the blessing of 
God, Wallis ! I believe in Waldron as a soldier. But 
as a man and a Christian, faugh ! " 

Gildersleeve had clearly emptied his canteen unas- 


sisted ; he never talked about Christianity when per 
fectly sober. 

" What was your last remark ? " inquired Wallis, 
taking his pipe from his mouth to grin. Even a su 
perior officer might be chaffed a little in the dark 

" I made no last remark," asserted the Colonel with 
dignity. " I m not a-dying yet. If I said anything 
last it was a mere exclamation of disgust the disgust 
of an officer and gentleman. I suppose you know 
something about our would-be Brigadier. I suppose 
you think you know something about him." 

" Bet you I know all about him," affirmed Wallis. 
" He enlisted in the old Tenth as a common soldier. 
Before he had been a week in camp they found that 
he knew his biz, and they made him a Sergeant. Be 
fore we started for the field the Governor got his eye 
on him and shoved him into a Lieutenancy. The first 
battle h isted him to a Captain. And the second 
bang! whiz! he shot up to Colonel, right over the 
heads of everybody, line and fkld. Nobody in the 
old Tenth grumbled. They saw that he knew his biz. 
I know all about him. What ll you bet? " 

" I m not a betting man, Lieutenant, except in a 
friendly game of poker," sighed Old Crumps. " You 
don t know anything about your Brigadier," he added 
in a sepulchral murmur, the echo of an empty canteen. 
" I have only been in this brigade a month, and I 
know more than you do, far, very far more, sorry to 
say it. He s a reformed clergyman. He s an aposta 
tized minister." The Colonel s voice as he said this 
was solemn and sad enough to do credit to an under- 


taker. " It s a bad sort, Wallis," he continued, after 
another deep sigh, a very highly perfumed one, the sigh 
of a bar-keeper. " When a clergyman falls, he falls 
for life and eternity, like a woman or an angel. I 
never knew a backslidden shepherd to come to good. 
Sooner or later he always goes to the devil, and takes 
down whomsoever hangs to him." 

"He ll take down the old Tenth, then," asserted 
Wallis. " It hangs to him. Bet you two to one he 
takes it along." 

"You re right, Adjutant; spoken like a soldier," 
swore Gildersleeve. " And the Bloody Fourteenth, 
too ! It will march into the burning pit as far as any 
regiment; and the whole brigade, yes sir! But a 
backslidden shepherd, my God! Have we come to 
that? I often say to myself, in the solemn hours of 
the night, as I remember my Sabbath-school days, 
Great Scott, have we come to that ? A reformed 
clergyman ! An apostatized minister ! Think of it, 
Wallis, think of it! Why, sir, his very wife ran 
away from him. They had but just buried their first 
boy," pursued Old Crumps, his hoarse voice sinking to 
a whimper. " They drove home from the burial-place, 
where lay the new-made grave. Arrived at their door, 
he got out and extended his hand to help her out. 
Instead of accepting, instead of throwing herself into 
his arms and weeping there, she turned to the coach 
man and said, * Driver, drive me to my father s house. 
That was the end of their wedded life, Wallis." 

The Colonel actually wept at this point, and the 
maudlin tears were not altogether insincere. His own 
wife and children he heartily loved, and remembered 


them now with honest tenderness. At home he was 
not a drinker and a rough ; only amid the hardships 
and perils of the field. 

" That was the end of it, Wallis," he repeated. 
" And what was it while it lasted ? What does a 
woman leave her husband for? Why does she sep 
arate from him over the grave of her innocent first 
born ? There are twenty reasons, but they must all of 
them be good ones. I am sorry to give it as my de 
cided opinion, Wallis, in perfect confidence, that they 
must all be whopping good ones. Well, that was the 
beginning; only the beginning. After that he held 
on for a while, breaking the bread of life to a ske 
daddling flock, and then he bolted. The next known 
of him, three years later, he enlisted in your regiment, 
a smart but seedy recruit, smelling strongly of whisky." 

" I wish I smelt half as strong of it myself," grum 
bled Wallis. " It might keep out the swamp fever." 

" That s the true story of Colonel John James Wal- 
dron," continued Old Crumps, with a groan which 
was very somnolent, as if it were a twin to a snore. 
" That s the true story." 

" I don t believe the first word of it that is to say, 
Colonel, I think you have been misinformed and I ll 
bet you two to one on it. If he was nothing more 
than a minister, how did he know drill and tactics ? " 

" Oh, I forgot to say, he went through West Point, 
that is, nearly through. They graduated him in his 
third year by the back door, Wallis." 

" Oh, that was it, was it? He was a West Pointer, 
was he? Well, then, the blacksliding was natural, 
and oughtn t to count against him. A member of 


Benny Havens church has a right to backslide any 
where, especially as the Colonel doesn t seem to be 
any worse than some of the rest of us, who haven t 
fallen from grace the least particle, but took our stand 
at the start just where we are now. A fellow that 
begins with a handful of trumps has a right to play a 
risky game." 

" I know what euchered him, Wallis. It was the 
old Little Joker; and there s another of the same on 
hand now/ 

" On hand where ? What are you driving at, Col 

" He looks like a boy. I mean she looks like a 
boy. You know what I mean, Wallis; I mean the 
boy that makes believe wait on him. And her 
brother is in camp, got here to-night. There ll be 
an explanation to-morrow, and there ll be blood 

" Good-night, Colonel, and sleep it off," said Wallis, 
rising from the side of a man whom he believed to 
be sillily drunk, and altogether untrustworthy. " You 
know we get after the rebs at dawn." 

" I know it goo-night, Adjutant gawbless-you," 
mumbled Old Crumps. " We ll lick those rebs, won t 
we?" he chuckled. "Goo-night, ole fellow, an gaw- 

Whereupon Old Crumps fell asleep, very absurdly 
overcome by liquor, we extremely regret to concede, 
but nobly sure to do his soldierly duty as soon as he 
should awake. 

Stumbling wearily blanketward, Wallis found his 
Major and regimental commander, the genial and gal- 


lant Gahogan, slumbering in a peace like that of the 
just. He stretched himself a-near, put out his hand to 
touch his saber and revolver, drew his caped great-coat 
over him, moved once to free his back of a root or 
pebble, glanced languidly at a single struggling star, 
thought for an instant of his far-away mother, turned 
his head with a sigh, and slept. In the morning he 
was to fight, and perhaps to die; but the boyish vet 
eran was too seasoned, and also too tired, to mind 
that; he could mind but one thing nature s pleading 
for rest. 

In the iron-gray dawn, while the troops were falling 
dimly and spectrally into line, and he was mounting 
his horse to be ready for orders, he remembered Gil- 
dersleeve s drunken tale concerning the commandant, 
and laughed aloud. But turning his face toward 
brigade headquarters (a sylvan region marked out by 
the branches of a great oak), he was surprised to see 
a strange officer, a fair young man in Captain s uni 
form, riding slowly toward it. 

"Is that the Boy s brother?" he said to himself; 
and in the next instant he had forgotten the whole 
subject; it was time to form and present the regi 

Quietly and without tap of drum the small battle- 
worn battalions filed out of their bivouac into the 
highway, ordered arms and waited for the word to 
march. With a dull rumble the field-pieces trundled 
slowly after, and halted in rear of the infantry. The 
cavalry trotted off circuitously through the fields, 
emerged upon the road in advance, and likewise halted, 
all but a single company, which pushed on for half 


a mile, spreading out as it went into a thin line of 

Meanwhile a strange interview took place near the 
great oak which had sheltered brigade headquarters. 
As the unknown officer, whom Wallis had noted, ap 
proached it, Colonel Waldron was standing by his 
horse ready to mount. The commandant was a man 
of medium size, fairly handsome in person and 
features, and apparently about twenty-eight years of 
age. Perhaps it was the singular breadth of his fore 
head which made the lower part of his face look so 
unusually slight and feminine. His eyes were dark 
hazel, as clear, brilliant, and tender as a girl s, and 
brimming full of a pensiveness which seemed both 
loving and melancholy. Few persons, at all events 
few women, who looked upon him ever looked be 
yond his eyes. They were very fascinating, and in 
a man s countenance very strange. They were the 
kind of eyes which reveal passionate romances, and 
which make them. 

By his side stood a boy, a singularly interesting and 
beautiful boy, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and delicate 
in color. When this boy saw the stranger approach 
he turned as pale as marble, slid away from the brigade 
commander s side, and disappeared behind a group of 
staff officers and orderlies. The newcomer also be 
came deathly white as he glanced after the retreat 
ing youth. Then he dismounted, touched his cap 
slightly, and, as if mechanically, advanced a few 
steps, and said hoarsely, k I believe this is Colonel 
Waldron. I am Captain Fitz Hugh, of the - th 


Waldron put his hand to his revolver, withdrew it 
instantaneously, and stood motionless. 

" I am on leave of absence from my regiment, Col 
onel," continued Fitz Hugh, speaking now with an 
elaborate ceremoniousness of utterance significant of 
a struggle to suppress violent emotion. " I suppose 
you can understand why I made use of it in seeking 

Waldron hesitated; he stood gazing at the earth 
with the air of one who repressed deep pain; at last, 
after a profound sigh, he raised his eyes and an 
swered : 

" Captain, we are on the eve of a battle. I must 
attend to my public duties first. After the battle we 
will settle our private affair." 

" There is but one way to settle it, Colonel." 

" You shall have your way if you will. You shall 
do what you will. I only ask what good will it do to 

" It will do good to me, Colonel," whispered Fitz 
Hugh, suddenly turning crimson. " You forget me" 

Waldron s face also flushed, and an angry sparkle 
shot from under his lashes in reply to this utterance 
of hate, but it died out in an instant. 

" I have done a wrong, and I will accept the conse 
quences," he said. " I pledge you my word that I 
will be at your disposal if I survive the battle. Where 
do you propose to remain meanwhile ? " 

" I will take the same chance, Sir. I propose to do 
my share in the fighting if you will use me." 

" I am short of staff officers. Will you act as my 


" I will, Colonel," bowed Fitz Hugh, with a glance 
which expressed surprise, and perhaps admiration, at 
this confidence. 

Waldron turned, beckoned his staff officers to ap 
proach, and said, " Gentlemen, this is Captain Fitz 

Hugh of the th Delaware. He has volunteered to 

join us for the day, and will act as my aid. And 
now, Captain, will you ride to the head of the column 
and order it forward? There will be no drum-beat 
and no noise. When you have given your order and 
seen it executed, you will wait for me." 

Fitz Hugh saluted, sprang into his saddle, and gal 
loped away. A few minutes later the whole column 
was plodding on silently toward its bloody goal. To a 
civilian, unaccustomed to scenes of war, the tran 
quillity of these men would have seemed very wonder 
ful. Many of the soldiers were still munching the 
hard bread and raw pork of their meager breakfasts, 
or drinking the cold coffee with which they had rilled 
their canteens the day previous. Many more were 
chatting in an undertone, grumbling over their sore 
feet and other discomfits, chaffing each other, and 
laughing. The general bearing, however, was grave, 
patient, quietly enduring, and one might almost say 
stolid. You would have said, to judge by their ex 
pressions, that these sunburnt fellows were merely 
doing hard work, and thoroughly commonplace work, 
without a prospect of adventure, and much less of 
danger. The explanation of this calmness, so brutal 
perhaps to the eye of a sensitive soul, lies mainly in 
the fact that they were all veterans, the survivors of 
marches, privations, maladies, sieges, and battles. Not 


a regiment present numbered four hundred men, and 
the average was not above three hundred. The whole 
force, including artillery and cavalry, might have been 
about twenty-five hundred sabers and bayonets. 

At the beginning of the march Waldron fell into 
the rear of his staff and mounted orderlies. Then the 
boy who had fled from Fitz Hugh dropped out of the 
tramping escort, and rode up to his side. 

" Well, Charlie," said Waldron, casting a pitying 
glance at the yet pallid face and anxious eyes of 
the youth, " you have had a sad fright. I make you 
very miserable." 

" He has found us at last," murmured Charlie in a 
tremulous soprano voice. " What did he say ? " 

" We are to talk to-morrow. He acts as my aide- 
de-camp to-day. I ought to tell you frankly that he 
is not friendly." 

" Of course, I knew it," sighed Charlie, while the 
tears fell. 

" It is only one more trouble one more danger, 
and perhaps it may pass. So many have passed." 

" Did you tell him anything to quiet him ? Did you 
tell him that we were married ? " 

" But we are not married, yet, Charlie. We shall 
be, I hope." 

" But you ought to have told him that we were. 
It might stop him from doing something mad. Why 
didn t you tell him so? Why didn t you think of it? " 

" My dear little child, we are about to have a battle. 
I should like to carry some honor and truth into it." 

" Where is he ? " continued Charlie, unconvinced 
and unappeased. " I want to see him. Is he at the 


head of the column? I want to speak to him, just 
one word. He won t hurt me." 

She suddenly spurred her horse, wheeled into the 
fields, and dashed onward. Fitz Hugh was lounging 
in his saddle, and somberly surveying the passing 
column, when she galloped up to him. 

" Carrol ! " she said, in a choked voice, reining in by 
his side, and leaning forward to touch his sleeve. 

He threw one glance at her a glance of aversion, 
if not of downright hatred, and turned his back in 

" He is my husband, Carrol," she went on rapidly. 
" I knew you didn t understand it. I ought to have 
written you about it. I thought I would come and 
tell you before you did anything absurd. We were 
married as soon as he heard that his wife was dead." 

"What is the use of this?" he muttered hoarsely. 
" She is not dead. I heard from her a week ago. She 
was living a week ago." 

" Oh, Carrol ! " stammered Charlie. " It was some 
mistake then. Is it possible! And he was so sure! 
But he can get a divorce, you know. She abandoned 
him. Or she can get one. No, he can get it of 
course, when she abandoned him. But, Carrol, she 
must be dead he was so sure." 

" She is not dead, I tell you. And there can be no 
divorce. Insanity bars all claim to a divorce. She 
is in an asylum. She had to leave him, and then 
she went mad." 

" Oh, no, Carrol, it is all a mistake ; it is not so, 
Carrol," she murmured in a voice so faint that he 
could not help glancing at her, half in fury and half 


in pity. She was slowly falling from her horse. He 
sprang from his saddle, caught her in his arms, and 
laid her on the turf, wishing the while that it covered 
her grave. Just then one of Waldron s orderlies rode 
up and exclaimed : " What is the matter with the the 
Boy? Hullo, Charlie." 

Fitz Hugh stared at the man in silence, tempted to 
tear him from his horse. " The boy is ill," he an 
swered when he recovered his self-command. " Take 
charge of him yourself." He remounted, rode on 
ward out of sight beyond a thicket, and there waited 
for the brigade commander, now and then fingering 
his revolver. As Charlie was being placed in an am 
bulance by the orderly and a sergeant s wife, Waldron 
came up, reined in his horse violently, and asked in 
a furious voice, " Is that boy hurt? " 

" Ah fainted," he added immediately. :< Thank 
you, Mrs. Gunner. Take good care of him the best 
of care, my dear woman, and don t let him leave you 
all day." 

Further on, when Fitz Hugh silently fell into his 
escort he merely glanced at him in a furtive way, 
and then cantered on rapidly to the head of the cav 
alry. There he beckoned to the tall, grave, iron-gray 
Chaplain of the Tenth, and rode with him for nearly 
an hour, apart, engaged in low and seemingly im 
passioned discourse. From this interview Mr. Colqu- 
houn returned to the escort with a strangely solem 
nized, tender countenance, while the commandant, with 
a more cheerful air than he had yet worn that day, 
gave himself to his martial duties, inspecting the land 
scape incessantly with his glass, and sending fre- 


quently for news to the advance scouts. It may prop 
erly be stated here that the Chaplain never divulged 
to anyone the nature of the conversation which he had 
held with his Colonel. 

Nothing further of note occurred until the little 
army, after two hours of plodding march, wound 
through a sinuous, wooded ravine, entered a broad, 
bare, slightly undulating valley, and for the second 
time halted. Waldron galloped to the summit of a 
knoll, pointed to a long eminence which faced him 
from two miles distant, and said tranquilly, " There 
is our battle-ground." 

" Is that the enemy s position ? " returned Captain 
Ives, his Adjutant-General. " We shall have a tough 
job if we go at it from here." 

Waldron remained in deep thought for some min 
utes, meanwhile scanning the ridge and all its sur 

" What I want to know," he observed, at last, " is 
whether they have occupied the wooded knolls in 
front of their right and around their right flank." 

Shortly afterward the commander of the scouting 
squadron came riding back at a furious pace. 

" They are on the hill, Colonel," he shouted. 

" Yes, of course," nodded Waldron ; " but have they 
occupied the woods which veil their right front and 

" Not a bit of it ; my fellows have cantered all 
through, and up to the base of the hill." 

" Ah ! " exclaimed the brigade commander, with a 
rush of elation. " Then it will be easy work. Go 
back, Captain, and scatter your men through the wood, 


and hold it, if possible. Adjutant, call up the regi 
mental commanders at once. I want them to under 
stand my plan fully." 

In a few minutes Gahogan, of the Tenth; Gilder- 
sleeve, of the Fourteenth ; Peck, of the First ; Thomas, 
of the Seventh ; Taylor, of the Eighth, and Colburn, of 
the Fifth, were gathered around their commander. 
There, too, was Bradley, the boyish, red-cheeked chief 
of the artillery; and Stilton, the rough, old, bearded 
regular, who headed the cavalry. The staff was at 
hand, also, including Fitz Hugh, who sat his horse, 
a little apart, downcast and somber and silent, but 
nevertheless keenly interested. It is worthy of re 
mark, by the way, that Waldron took no special 
note of him, and did not seem conscious of any dis 
turbing presence. Evil as the man may have been, he 
was a thoroughly good soldier, and just now he 
thought but of his duties. 

" Gentlemen," he said, " I want you to see your 
field of battle. The enemy occupy that long ridge. 
How shall we reach it?" 

" I think, if we go at it straight from here, we 
shan t miss it," promptly judged Old Crumps, his 
red-oak countenance admirably cheerful and hopeful, 
and his jealousy all dissolved in the interest of ap 
proaching combat. 

" Nor they won t miss us nuther," laugher Major 
Gahogan. " Better slide our infantree into thim wuds, 
push up our skirmishers, play away wid our guns for 
an hour, an thin rowl in a couple o col ms." 

There was a general murmur of approval. The 
limits of volunteer invention in tactics had been 


reached by Gahogan. The other regimental com 
manders looked upon him as their superior in the art of 

" That would be well, Major, if we could do nothing 
better," said Waldron. " But I do not feel obliged to 
attack the front seriously at all. The rebels have 
been thoughtless enough to leave that long semicircle 
of wooded knolls unoccupied, even by scouts. It 
stretches from the front of their center clear around 
their right flank. I shall use it as a veil to cover 
us while we get into position. I shall throw out a 
regiment, a battery, and five companies of cavalry, to 
make a feint against their center and left. With the 
remainder of the brigade I shall skirt the woods, 
double around the right of the position, and close in 
upon it front and rear." 

" Loike scissors blades upon a snip o paper," 
shouted Gahogan, in delight. Then he turned to Fitz 
Hugh, who happened to be nearest him, and added, 
" I tell ye he s got the God o War in um. He s the 
burrnin bussh of humanity, wid a God o Battles in 
side on t." 

" But how if they come down on our thin right 
wing? " asked a cautious officer, Taylor, of the Eighth. 
They might smash it and seize our line of retreat." 

" Men who have taken up a strong position, a posi 
tion obviously chosen for defense, rarely quit it 
promptly for an attack," replied Waldron. " There is 
not one chance in ten that these gentlemen will make 
a considerable forward movement early in the fight. 
Only the greatest geniuses jump from the defensive 
to the offensive. Besides, we must hold the wood. 


So long as we hold the wood in front of their center 
we save the road." 

Then came personal and detailed instructions. Each 
regimental commander was told whither he should 
march, the point where he should halt to form line, 
and the direction by which he should attack. The 
mass of the command was to advance in marching col 
umn toward a knoll where the highway entered and 
traversed the wood. Some time before reaching it 
Taylor was to deploy the Eighth to the right, throw out 
a strong skirmish line, and open fire on the enemy s 
center and left, supported by the battery of Parrotts, 
and, if pushed, by five companies of cavalry. The re 
maining troops would reach the knoll, file to the left 
under cover of the forest, skirt it for a mile as rapidly 
as possible, enfold the right of the Confederate posi 
tion, and then move upon it concentrically. Counting 
from the left, the Tenth, the Seventh, and the Four 
teenth were to constitute the first line of battle, while 
five companies of cavalry, then the First, and then 
the Fifth formed the second line. Not until Gaho- 
gan might have time to wind into the enemy s right 
rear should Gildersleeve move out of the wood and 
commence the real attack. 

" You will go straight at the front of their right," 
said Waldron, with a gay smile, to this latter Colonel. 
" Send up two companies as skirmishers. The moment 
they are clearly checked, lead up the other eight in 
line. It will be rough work. But keep pushing. You 
won t have fifteen minutes of it before Thomas, on 
your left, will be climbing the end of the ridge to 
take the rebels in flank. In fifteen minutes more Ga- 


hogan will be running in on their backs. Of course, 
they will try to change front and meet us. But they 
have extended their line a long way in order to cover 
the whole ridge. They will not be quick enough. We 
shall get hold of their right, and we shall roll them 
up. Then, Colonel Stilton, I shall expect to see the 
troopers jumping into the gaps and making prisoners." 

" All right, Colonel," answered Stilton in that hoarse 
growl which is apt to mark the old cavalry officer. 
" Where shall we find you if we want a fresh order? " 

" I shall be with Colburn, in rear of Gildersleeve. 
That is our center. But never mind me; you know 
what the battle is to be, and you know how to fight it. 
The whole point with the infantry is to fold around 
the enemy s right, go in upon it concentrically, smash 
it, and roll up their line. The cavalry will watch 
against the infantry being flanked, and when the 
latter have seized the hill, will charge for prisoners. 
The artillery will reply to the enemy s guns with shell, 
and fire grape at any offensive demonstration. You 
all know your duties, now, gentlemen. Go to your 
commands, and march ! " 

The Colonels saluted and started off at a gallop. 
In a few minutes twenty-five hundred men were in 
simultaneous movement. Five companies of cavalry 
wheeled into column of companies, and advanced at 
a trot through the fields, seeking to gain the shelter of 
the forest. The six infantry regiments slid up along 
side of each other, and pushed on in six parallel col 
umns of march, two on the right of the road and four 
on the left. The artillery, which alone left the high 
way, followed at a distance of two or three hundred 


yards. The remaining cavalry made a wide detour to 
the right, as if to flank the enemy s left. 

It was a mile and a quarter it was a march of fully 
twenty minutes to the edge of the woodland, the pro 
posed cover of the column. Ten minutes before this 
point was reached a tiny puff of smoke showed on 
the brow of the hostile ridge; then, at an interval of 
several seconds, followed the sound of a distant ex 
plosion; then, almost immediately came the screech of 
a rifled shell. Every man who heard it swiftly asked 
himself, " Will it strike me? " But ever as the words 
were thought out it had passed, high in air, clean to 
the rear, and burst harmlessly. A few faces turned 
upward and a few eyes glanced backward, as if to 
see the invisible enemy. But there was no pause in 
the column ; it flowed onward quietly, eagerly, and with 
business-like precision; it gave forth no sound but 
the trampling of feet and the muttering of the officers, 
" Steady, men ! Forward, men." 

The Confederates, however, had got their range. 
A half-minute later four puffs of smoke dotted the 
ridge, and a flight of hoarse humming shrieks tore 
the air. A little aureole cracked and splintered over 
the First, followed by loud cries of anguish and a brief, 
slight confusion. The voice of an officer rose sharply 
out of the flurry. " Close up, Company A ! Forward, 
men ! " The battalion column resumed its even 
formation in an instant, and tramped unitedly on 
ward, leaving behind it two quivering corpses and a 
wounded man who tottered rearward. 

Then came more screeches, and a shell exploded 
over the highroad, knocking a gunner lifeless from 


his carriage. The brigade commander glanced 
anxiously along his batteries, and addressed a few 
words to his chief of artillery. Presently the four Na 
poleons set forward at a gallop for the wood, while the 
four Parrotts wheeled to the right, deployed, and 
advanced across the fields, inclining toward the left 
of the enemy. Next, Taylor s regiment (the Eighth) 
halted, fronted, faced to the right, and filed off in col 
umn of march at a double-quick until it had gained 
the rear of the Parrotts, when it fronted again, and 
pushed on in support. A quarter of a mile further 
on these guns went into battery behind the brow of a 
little knoll, and opened fire. Four companies of the 
Eighth spread out to the right as skirmishers, and 
commenced stealing toward the ridge, from time to 
time measuring the distance with rifle-balls. The re 
mainder of the regiment lay down in line between the 
Parrotts and the forest. Far away to the right, five 
companies of cavalry showed themselves, maneuvering 
as if they proposed to turn the left flank of the South 
erners. The attack on this side was in form and in 

Meantime the Confederate fire had divided. Two 
guns pounded away at Taylor s feint, while two shelled 
the main column. The latter was struck repeatedly; 
more than twenty men dropped silent or groaning out 
of the hurrying files ; but the survivors pushed on 
without faltering, and without even caring for the 
wounded. At last a broad belt of green branches rose 
between the regiments and the ridge; and the rebel 
gunners, unable to see their foe, dropped suddenly into 


Here it appeared that the road divided. The high 
way traversed the forest, mounted the slope beyond, 
and dissected the enemy s position, while a branch 
road turned to the left and skirted the exterior of the 
long curve of wooded hillocks. At the fork the bat 
tery of Napoleons had halted, and there it was ordered 
to remain for the present in quiet. There, too, the 
Fourteenth filed in among the dense greenery, threw 
out two companies of skirmishers toward the ridge, 
and pushed slowly after them into the shadows. 

" Get sight of the enemy at once ! " was Waldron s 
last word to Gildersleeve. " If they move down the 
slope, drive them back. But don t commence your 
attack under half an hour." 

Next he filed the Fifth into the thickets, saying to 
Colburn, " I want you to halt a hundred yards to the 
left and rear of Gildersleeve. Cover his flank if he is 
attacked; but otherwise lie quiet. As soon as he 
charges, move forward to the edge of the wood, and 
be ready to support him. But make no assault your 
self until further orders." 

The two next regiments the Seventh and First 
he placed in echelon, in like manner, a quarter of a mile 
further along. Then he galloped forward to the cav 
alry, and had a last word with Stilton. " You and 
Gahogan must take care of yourselves. Push on four 
or five hundred yards, and then face to the right. 
Whatever Gahogan finds let him go at it. If he can t 
shake it, help him. You two must reach the top of 
the ridge. Only, look out for your left flank. Keep 
a squadron or two in reserve on that side." 

" Currnel, if we don t raich the top of the hill, it ll 


be because it hasn t got wan," answered Gahogan. 
Stilton only laughed and rode forward. 

Waldron now returned toward the fork of the road. 
On the way he sent a staff officer to the Seventh with 
renewed orders to attack as soon as possible after 
Gildersleeve. Then another staff officer was hurried 
forward to Taylor with directions to push his feint 
strongly, and drive his skirmishers as far up the slope 
as they could get. A third staff officer set the Par- 
rotts in rear of Taylor to firing with all their might. 
By the time that the commandant had returned to 
Colburn s ambushed ranks, no one was with him but 
his enemy, Fitz Hugh. 

" You don t seem to trust me with duty, Colonel," 
said the young man. 

" I shall use you only in case of extremity, Captain," 
replied Waldron. " We have business to settle to 

" I ask no favors on that account. I hope you will 
offer me none." 

" In case of need I shall spare no one," declared 

Then he took out his watch, looked at it impatiently, 
put it to his ear, restored it to his pocket, and fell 
into an attitude of deep attention. Evidently his 
whole mind was on his battle, and he was waiting, 
watching, yearning for its outburst. 

" If he wins this fight," thought Fitz Hugh, " how 
can I do him a harm ? And yet," he added, " how can 
I help it?" 

Minutes passed. Fitz Hugh tried to think of his in 
jury, and to steel himself against his chief. But the 


roar of battle on the right, and the suspense and im 
minence of battle on the left, absorbed the attention 
of even this wounded and angry spirit, as, indeed, they 
might have absorbed that of any being not more or less 
than human. A private wrong, insupportable though 
it might be, seemed so small amid that deadly clamor 
and awful expectation ! Moreover, the intellect which 
worked so calmly and vigorously by his side, and 
which alone of all things near appeared able to rule 
the coming crisis, began to dominate him, in spite 
of his sense of injury. A thought crossed him to the 
effect that the great among men are too valuable to be 
punished for their evil deeds. He turned to the ob- 
sorbed brigade commander, now not only his ruler, 
but even his protector, with a feeling that he must ac 
cord him a word of peace, a proffer in some form of 
possible forgiveness and friendship. But the man s 
face was clouded and stern with responsibility and 
authority. He seemed at that moment too lofty to be 
approached with a message of pardon. Fitz Hugh 
gazed at him with a mixture of profound respect and 
smothered hate. He gazed, turned away, and re 
mained sile it. 

Minutes more passed. Then a mounted orderly 
dashed up at full speed, with the words, " Colonel, 
Major Gahogan has fronted." 

" Has he?" answered Waldron, with a smile which 
thanked the trooper and made him happy. " Ride 
on through the thicket here, my man, and tell Col 
onel Gildersleeve to push up his skirmishers." 

With a thud of hoofs and a rustling of parting 
foliage the cavalryman disappeared amid the under- 


wood. A minute or two later a thin, dropping rattle 
of musketry, five hundred yards or so to the front, 
announced that the sharpshooters of the Fourteenth 
were at work. Almost immediately there was an 
angry response, full of the threatenings and execution 
of death. Through the lofty leafage tore the screech 
of a shell, bursting with a sharp crash as it passed 
overhead, and scattering in humming slivers. Then 
came another, and another, and many more, chasing 
each other with hoarse hissings through the trembling 
air, a succession of flying serpents. The enemy doubt 
less believed that nearly the whole attacking force was 
massed in the wood around the road, and they had 
brought at least four guns to bear upon that point, and 
were working them with the utmost possible rapidity. 
Presently a large chestnut, not fifty yards from Fitz 
Hugh, was struck by a shot. The solid trunk, nearly 
three feet in diameter, parted asunder as if it were 
the brittlest of vegetable matter. The upper portion 
started aside with a monstrous groan, dropped in a 
standing posture to the earth, and then topped slowly, 
sublimely prostrate, its branches crashing and all its 
leaves wailing. Ere long, a little further to the front, 
another Anak of the forest went down; and, mingled 
with the noise of its sylvan agony, there arose sharp 
cries of human suffering. Then Colonel Colburn, a 
broad-chested and ruddy man of thirty-five, with a 
look of indignant anxiety in his iron-gray eyes, rode 
up to the brigade commander. 

" This is very annoying, Colonel," he said. " I am 
losing my men without using them. That last tree 
fell into my command." 


" Are they firing toward our left ? " asked Waldron. 

" Not a shot" 

" Very good," said the chief, with a sigh of content 
ment. "If we can only keep them occupied in this 
direction! By the way, let your men lie down under 
the fallen tree, as far as it will go. It will protect 
them from others." 

Colburn rode back to his regiment. Waldron looked 
impatiently at his watch. At that moment a fierce 
burst of line firing arose in front, followed and al 
most overborne by a long-drawn yell, the scream of 
charging men. Waldron put up his watch, glanced ex 
citedly at Fitz Hugh, and smiled. 

" I must forgive or forget," the latter could not 
help saying to himself. " All the rest of life is nothing 
compared with this." 

" Captain," said Waldron, " ride off to the left at full 
speed. As soon as you hear firing at the shoulder of 
the ridge, return instantly and let me know." 

Fitz Hugh dashed away. Three minutes carried 
him into perfect peace, beyond the whistling of ball 
or the screeching of shell. On the right was a tran 
quil, wide waving of foliage, and on the left a serene 
landscape of cultivated fields, with here and there an 
embowered farmhouse. Only for the clamor of 
artillery and musketry far behind him, he could not 
have believed in the near presence of battle, of blood 
and suffering and triumphant death. But suddenly he 
heard to his right, assaulting and slaughtering the tran 
quillity of nature, a tumultuous outbreak of file-firing, 
mingled with savage yells. He wheeled, drove spurs 
into his horse, and flew back to Waldron. As he re- 


entered the wood he met wounded men streaming 
through it, a few marching alertly upright, many more 
crouching and groaning, some clinging to their less in 
jured comrades, but all haggard in face and ghastly. 

" Are we winning ? " he hastily asked of one man 
who held up a hand with three fingers gone and the 
bones projecting in sharp spikes through mangled flesh. 

" All right, Sir ; sailing in," was the answer. 

" Is the brigade commander all right ? " he inquired 
of another who was winding a bloody handkerchief 
around his arm. 

4< Straight ahead, Sir ; hurrah for Waldron ! " re 
sponded the soldier, and almost in the same instant 
fell lifeless with a fresh ball through his head. 

" Hurrah for him ! " Fitz Hugh answered frantically, 
plunging on through the underwood. He found Wal 
dron with Colburn, the two conversing tranquilly in 
their saddles amid hissing bullets and dropping 

" Move your regiment forward now," the brigade 
commander was saying ; " but halt it in the edge of the 

"Shan t I relieve Gildersleeve if he gets beaten? 
asked the subordinate officer eagerly. 

" No. The regiments on the left will help him out. 
I want your men and Peck s for the fight on top of the 
hill. Of course the rebels will try to retake it; then I 
shall call for you." 

Fitz Hugh now approached and said, " Colonel, the 
Seventh has attacked in force." 

" Good ! " answered Waldron, with that sweet smile 
of his which thanked people who brought him pleas- 


ant news. " I thought I heard his fire. Gahogan will 
be on their right rear in ten minutes. Then we shall 
get the ridge. Ride back now to Major Bradley, and 
tell him to bring his Napoleons through the wood, and 
set two of them to shelling the enemy s center. Tell 
him my idea is to amuse them, and keep them from 
changing front." 

Again Fitz Hugh galloped off as before on a com 
fortably safe errand, safer at all events than many 
errands of that day. " This man is sparing my life," 
he said to himself. " Would to God I knew how to 
spare his ! " 

He found Bradley lunching on a gun caisson, and 
delivered his orders. " Something to do at last, eh ? " 
laughed the rosy-cheeked youngster. " The smallest 
favors thankfully received. Won t you take a bite 
of rebel chicken, Captain? This rebellion must be put 
down. No? Well, tell the Colonel I am moving on, 
and John Brown s soul not far ahead." 

When Fitz Hugh returned to Waldron he found him 
outside of the wood, at the base of the long incline 
which rose into the rebel position. About the slope 
were scattered prostrate forms, most numerous near 
the bottom, some crawling slowly rearward, some 
quiescent. Under the brow of the ridge, decimated 
and broken into a mere skirmish line sheltered in knots 
and singly, behind rocks and knolls and bushes, lay the 
Fourteenth Regiment, keeping up a steady, slow fire. 
From the edge above, smokily dim against a pure, blue 
heaven, answered another rattle of musketry, incessant, 
obstinate, and spiteful. The combatants on both sides 
were lying down; otherwise neither party could have 


lasted ten minutes. From Fitz Hugh s point of view 
not a Confederate uniform could be seen. But the 
smoke of their rifles made a long gray line, which was 
disagreeably visible and permanent; and the sharp 
whit! whit! of their bullets continually passed him, and 
cheeped away in the leafage behind. 

" Our men can t get on another inch," he ventured 
to say to his commander. " Wouldn t it be well for me 
to ride up and say a cheering word ? " 

" Every battle consists largely in waiting," replied 
Waldron thoughtfully. " They have undoubtedly 
brought up a reserve to face Thomas. But when 
Gahogan strikes the flank of the reserve, we shall 

" I wish you would take shelter," begged Fitz Hugh. 
" Everything depends on your life." 

" My life has been both a help and a hurt to my 
fellow-creatures," sighed the brigade commander. 
" Let come what will to it." 

He glanced upward with an expression of profound 
emotion ; he was evidently fighting two battles, an 
outward and an inward one. 

Presently, he added, " I think the musketry is in 
creasing on the left. Does it strike you so?" 

He was all eagerness again, leaning forward with an 
air of earnest listening, his face deeply flushed and 
his eye brilliant. Of a sudden the combat above rose 
and swelled into higher violence. There was a 
clamor far away it seemed nearly a mile away over 
the hill. Then the nearer musketry, first Thomas s 
on the shoulder of the ridge, next Gildersleeve s in 
front, caught fire and raged with new fury. 


Waldron laughed outright. " Gahogan has reached 
them," he said to one of his staff who had just re 
joined him. " We shall all be up there in five min 
utes. Tell Colburn to bring on his regiment slowly." 

Then, turning to Fitz Hugh, he added, " Captain, 
we will ride forward." 

They set off at a walk, now watching the smoking 
brow of the eminence, now picking their way among 
dead and wounded. Suddenly there was a shout above 
them and a sudden diminution of the firing; and 
looking upward, they saw the men of the Fourteenth 
running confusedly toward the summit. Without a 
word the brigade commander struck spurs into his 
horse and dashed up the long slope at a run, closely 
followed by his enemy and aid. What they saw when 
they overtook the straggling, running, panting, scream 
ing pell-mell of the Fourteenth was victory ! 

The entire right wing of the Confederates, attacked 
on three sides at once, placed at enormous disad 
vantage, completely overgeneraled, had given way in 
confusion, was retreating, breaking, and flying. There 
were lines yet of dirty gray or butternut; but they 
were few, meager, fluctuating, and recoiling, and there 
were scattered and scurrying men in hundreds. Three 
veteran and gallant regiments had gone all to wreck 
under the shock of three similar regiments far more 
intelligently directed. A strong position had been lost 
because the heroes who held it could not perform the 
impossible feat of forming successively two fresh 
fronts under a concentric fire of musketry. The in 
ferior brain power had confessed the superiority of 
the stronger one. 


On the victorious side there was wild, clamorous, 
fierce exultation. The hurrying, shouting, firing sol 
diers, who noted their commander riding among them, 
swung their rifles or their tattered hats at him, and 
screamed " Hurrah ! " No one thought of the Con 
federate dead under foot, nor of the Union dead who 
dotted the slope behind. " What are you here for, Col 
onel?" shouted rough old Gildersleeve, one leg of his 
trousers dripping blood. " We can do it alone." 

" It is a battle won," laughed Fitz Hugh, almost 
worshiping the man whom he had come to slay. 

" It is a battle won, but not used," answered Wal- 
dron. " We haven t a gun yet, nor a flag. Where is 
the cavalry? Why isn t Stilton here? He must have 
got afoul of the enemy s horse, and been obliged 
to beat it off. Can anybody hear anything of 

" Let him go," roared Old Crumps. " The infantry 
don t want any help." 

" Your regiment has suffered, Colonel," answered 
Waldron, glancing at the scattered files of the Four 
teenth. " Halt it and reorganize it, and let it fall in 
with the right of the First when Peck comes up. I 
shall replace you with the Fifth. Send your Adjutant 
back to Colburn and tell him to hurry along. Those 
fellows are making a new front over there," he added, 
pointing to the center of the hill. " I want the Fifth, 
Seventh, and Tenth in echelon as quickly as possible. 
And I want that cavalry. Lieutenant," turning to one 
of his staff, " ride off to the left and find Colonel 
Stilton. Tell him that I need a charge in ten 


Presently cannon opened from that part of the ridge 
still held by the Confederates, the shells tearing 
through or over the dissolving groups of their right 
wing, and cracking viciously above the heads of the 
victorious Unionists. The explosions followed each 
other with stunning rapidity, and the shrill whirring 
of the splinters was ominous. Men began to fall again 
in the ranks or to drop out of them wounded. Of all 
this Waldron took no further note than to ride hastily 
to the brow of the ridge and look for his own 

" See how he attinds to iverthing himself," said 
Major Gahogan, who had cantered up to the side of 
Fitz Hugh. " It s just a matther of plain business, 
an he looks after it loike a business man. Did ye see 
us, though, Captin, whin we come in on their right 
flank? By George, we murthered um. There s 
more n a hundred lyin in hapes back there. As for 
old Stilton, I just caught sight of um behind that 
wood to our left, and he s makin* for the enemy s 
right rair. He ll have lots o prisoners in half an 

When Waldron returned to the group he was told 
of his cavalry s whereabouts, and responded to the 
information with a smile of satisfaction. 

" Bradley is hurrying up," he said, " and Taylor 
is pushing their left smartly. They will make one 
more tussle to recover their line of retreat; but we 
shall smash them from end to end and take every 

He galloped now to his infantry, and gave the word 
" Forward ! " The three regiments which composed 


the echelon were the Fifth on the right, the Seventh 
fifty yards to the rear and left of the Fifth. It was 
behind the Fifth, that is, the foremost battalion, that 
the brigade commander posted himself. 

" Do you mean to stay here, Colonel ? " asked Fitz 
Hugh, in surprise and anxiety. 

" It is a certain victory now," answered Waldron, 
with a singular glance upward. " My life is no longer 
important. I prefer to do my duty to the utmost in 
the sight of all men." 

" I shall follow you and do mine, Sir," said the 
Captain, much moved, he could scarcely say by what 
emotions, they were so many and conflicting. 

" I want you otherwheres. Ride to Colonel Taylor 
at once, and hurry him up the hill. Tell him the enemy 
have greatly weakened their left. Tell him to push 
up everything, infantry, and cavalry, and artillery, and 
to do it in haste." 

" Colonel, this is saving my life against my will," 
remonstrated Fitz Hugh. 

" Go ! " ordered Waldron, imperiously. " Time is 

Fitz Hugh dashed down the slope to the right at a 
gallop. The brigade commander turned tranquilly, 
and followed the march of his echelon. The second 
and decisive crisis of the little battle was approaching, 
and to -understand it we must glance at the ground on 
which it was to be fought. Two hostile lines were 
marching toward each other along the broad, gently 
rounded crest of the hill, and at right angles to its gen 
eral course. Between these lines, but much the near 
est to the Union troops, a spacious road came up out 


of the forest in front, crossed the ridge, swept down 
the smooth decline in rear, and led to a single wooden 
bridge over a narrow but deep rivulet. On either 
hand the road was hedged in by a close board fence, 
four feet or so in height. It was for the possession 
of this highway that the approaching lines were about 
to shed their blood. If the Confederates failed to 
win it, all their artillery would be lost, and their army 
captured or dispersed. 

The two parties came on without firing. The sol 
diers on both sides were veterans, cool, obedient to 
orders, intelligent through long- service, and able 
to reserve all their resources for a short-range and 
final struggle. Moreover, the fences as yet par 
tially hid them from each other, and would have 
rendered all aim for the present vague and uncer 

" Forward, Fifth ! " shouted Waldron. " Steady. 
Reserve your fire." Then, as the regiment came up to 
the fence, he added, " Halt, right dress. Steady, 

Meantime he watched the advancing array with 
an eager gaze. It was a noble sight, full of moral 
sublimity, and worthy of all admiration. The long, 
lean, sunburned, weather-beaten soldiers in ragged 
gray stepped forward, superbly, their ranks loose, but 
swift and firm, the men leaning forward in their haste, 
their tattered slouch hats pushed backward, their whole 
aspect business-like and virile. Their line was three 
battalions strong, far outflanking the Fifth, and at least 
equal to the entire echelon. When within thirty or 
forty yards of the further fence they increased their 


pace to nearly a double-quick, many of them stooping 
low in hunter fashion, and a few firing. Then Wal- 
dron rose in his stirrups and yelled, " Battalion ! ready 
aim aim low. Fire ! " 

There was a stunning roar of three hundred and 
fifty rifles and a deadly screech of bullets. But the 
smoke rolled out, the haste to reload was intense, and 
none could mark what execution was done. Whatever 
the Confederates may have suffered, they bore up un 
der the volley, and they came on. In another minute 
each of those fences, not more than twenty-five yards 
apart, was lined by the shattered fragments of a regi 
ment, each firing as fast as possible into the face of 
the other. The Fifth bled fearfully: it had five of its 
ten company commanders shot dead in three minutes; 
and its loss in other officers and in men fell scarcely 
short of this terrific ratio. On its left the Seventh 
and the Tenth were up, pouring in musketry, and re 
ceiving it in a fashion hardly less sanguinary. No one 
present had ever seen, or ever afterward saw, such 
another close and deadly contest. 

But the strangest thing in this whole wonderful fight 
was the conduct of the brigade commander. Up and 
down the rear of the lacerated Fifth, Waldron rode 
thrice, spurring his plunging and wounded horse, close 
to the yelling and fighting file-closers, and shouting in 
a piercing voice encouragement to his men. Stranger 
still, considering the character which he had borne in 
the army, and considering the evil deed for which he 
was to account on the morrow, were the words which 
he was distinctly and repeatedly heard to utter. 
" Stand steady, men God is with us ! " was the ex- 


traordinary battle-cry of this backslidden clergyman, 
this sinner above many. 

And it was a prophecy of victory. Bradley ran up 
his Napoleons on the right in the nick of time, and, 
although only one of them could be brought to bear, 
it was enough; the grape raked the Confederate left, 
broke it, and the battle was over. In five minutes 
more their whole array was scattered, and the entire 
position open to galloping cavalry, seizing guns, stand 
ards, and prisoners. 

It was in the very moment of triumph, just as the 
stubborn Southern line reeled back from the fence in 
isolated clusters, that the miraculous impunity of 
Waldron terminated, and he received his death wound. 
A quarter of an hour later Fitz Hugh found a sor 
rowful group of officers gazing from a little distance 
upon their dying commander. 

" Is the Colonel hit? " he asked, shocked and grieved, 
incredible as the emotion may seem. 

" Don t go near him," called Gildersleeve, who, it 
will be remembered, knew or guessed his errand in 
camp. " The Chaplain and surgeon are there. Let 
him alone." 

" He s going to render his account," added Gahogan. 
" An whativer he s done wrong, he s made it square 
to-day. Let um lave it to his brigade." 

Adjutant Wallis, who had been blubbering aloud, 
who had cursed the rebels and the luck energetically, 
and who had also been trying to pray inwardly, 
groaned out, " This is our last victory. You see if it 
ain t. Bet you two to one." 

" Hush, man," replied Gahogan. " We ll win our 


share of um, though we ll have to work harder for it. 
We ll have to do more ourselves, an get less done for 
us in the way of tactics." 

" That so, Major," whimpered a drummer, looking 
up from his duty of attending to a wounded comrade. 
" He knowed how to put his men in the right place, 
and his men knowed when they was in the right place. 
But it s goin to be uphill through the steepest part of 
hell the rest of the way." 

Soldiers, some of them weeping, some of them 
bleeding, arrived constantly to inquire after their com 
mander, only to be sent quietly back to their ranks or 
to the rear. Around lay other men dead men, and 
senseless, groaning men all for the present unnoticed. 
Everything, except the distant pursuit of the cavalry, 
waited for Waldron to die. Fitz Hugh looked on 
silently, with the tears of mingled emotions in his eyes, 
and with hopes and hatreds expiring in his heart. The 
surgeon supported the expiring victor s head, while 
Chaplain Colquhoun knelt beside him, holding his hand 
and praying audibly. Of a sudden the petition ceased, 
both bent hastily toward the wounded man, and after 
what seemed a long time exchanged whispers. Then 
the Chaplain rose, came slowly toward the now ad 
vancing group of officers, his hands outspread toward 
heaven in an attitude of benediction, and tears running 
down his haggard white face. 

" I trust, dear friends," he said, in a tremu 
lous voice, " that all is well with our brother and 
commander. His last words were, God is with 
us/ " 

" Oh! but, man, that isn t well," broke out Gahogan, 


in a groan. "What did ye pray for his sowl for? 
Why didn t ye pray for his loif e ? " 

Fitz Hugh turned his horse and rode silently away. 
The next day he was seen journeying rearward by the 
side of an ambulance, within which lay what seemed 
a strangely delicate boy, insensible, and, one would 
say, mortally ill. 



I want you to listen to a sad, sweet story to-day, and 
yet one that ought to make you glad glad that such 
men have lived as those of whom I am going to tell 
you. It all happened a good many years ago, in fact 
so long ago that your fathers and mothers were little 
boys and girls in kilts and pinafores, some of them 
mere babies in long clothes. 

One bright Sunday morning in April the telegraph 
wires could be heard repeating the same things all over 
the land, " Tic, tic, tictic ; t-i-c ; tic, tictic ; tic, t-i-c, tic ; 
t-i-c ; tic, t-i-c ; t-i-c, t-i-c, tic," they called out, and the 
drowsy telegraph operators sat up in their chairs as if 
startled by the words the wires were saying. 

;< Tic, t-i-c ; tic ; tictic ; tic, tictic ; tic, t-i-c, tictic ; 
tic, tic ; t-i-c, tic," continued the wires, and the faces of 

From "In Story Land." Sigma Publishing Co., St. 
Louis, Mo. 


the telegraph operators grew pale. Any looker-on 
could have seen that something dreadful was being told 
by the wires. 

" Tic, t-i-c, tic ; tictic ; tic, tictic ; tic ; t-i-c, tictic ; tic, 
tic; t-i-c, tic," again repeated the wires. There was 
no mistaking the message this time. Alas, alas, it was 
true ! The terrible news was true ! Even the bravest 
among the operators trembled. 

Then came the rapid writing out of the fearful words 
that the slender wires had uttered, the hurrying to and 
fro; the messenger boys were seen flying to the great 
newspaper offices, and the homes of the mayors of the 
cities, and to the churches where already the people 
were beginning to assemble. For the deep-toned Sab 
bath church bells high up in the steeples had been ring 
ing out their welcome to all, even the strangers in 
their midst " Bim ! Baum ! Bim ! " they sang, which 
everybody knew meant, " Come to church, dear people ! 
Come ! Come ! Come ! " And the people strolled 
leisurely along toward the churches, fathers and 
mothers and little ones, and even grandfathers and 
grandmothers. It was such a bright, pleasant day 
that it seemed a joy to go to the house of God and 
thank Him for all His love and care. So one family 
after another filed into their pews while the organist 
played such soft, sweet music that everybody felt 
soothed and quieted by it. 

Little did they dream of the awful words which the 
telegraph wires were at that very moment calling out 
with their "Tic, t-i-c, tic; t-i-c; tic, t-i-c; t-i-c; t-i-c, 
tic ; tic, t-i-c, tic, tictic, tic, tictic ; tic, t-i-c ; tictic. * 

The clergymen came in and took their places in the 


pulpits. In each church the organ ceased its wordless 
song of praise. The congregation bowed and silently 
joined with all their hearts in the petitions which the 
clergyman was offering to the dear Lord, Father of all 
mankind, Ruler of heaven and earth. Some of them 
softly whispered " Amen " as he asked protection for 
their homes and their beloved country. Did they know 
anything about the danger which even then hung over 
them? Perhaps they did. 

In many of the churches the prayer was over, the 
morning hymn had been sung, when a stir and bustle 
at the door might have been noticed, as the messenger 
boys, excited and out of breath, handed their yellow 
envelopes to the ushers who stood near the door ready 
to show the late comers to unoccupied seats. First 
one and then the other ushers read the message, and 
from some one of them escaped in a hushed whisper, 
the words, " Oh God ! Has it come to this ! " 

And all looked white and awe-struck. The head 
usher hurried tremblingly down the aisle, and without 
waiting for the clergyman to finish reading the an 
nouncements of the week, laid the telegram upon the 
pulpit desk. 

The clergyman, somewhat surprised at such an inter 
ruption, glanced at the paper, stopped, gasped, picked 
it up, and reread the words written upon it, as though 
he could not believe his own eyes. Then he advanced 
a step forward, holding on to the desk, as if he had 
been struck a blow by some unseen hand. The con 
gregation knew that something terrible had happened, 
and their hearts seemed to stop beating as they leaned 
forward to catch his words. 


" My people," said he in a slow, deliberate tone, as 
if it were an effort to steady his voice, " I hold in my 
hand a message from the President of the United 
States." Then his eyes dropped to the paper which he 
still held, and now his voice rang out clear and loud as 
he read, " Our Flag has been fired upon! Seventy-five 
thousand troops wanted at once. Abraham Lincoln." 

I could not make you understand all that took place 
the next week or two any more than the little children 
who heard what the telegram said, understood it. 
Men came home, hurried and excited, to hunt up law 
papers, or to straighten out deeds, saying in con 
strained tones to the pale-faced women, " I will try 
to leave all business matters straight before I go." 
There was solemn consultations between husbands and 
wives, which usually ended in the father s going out, 
stern-faced and silent, and the mother, dry-eyed but 
with quivering lips, seeking her own room, locking her 
self in for an hour, then coming out to the wondering 
children with a quiet face, but with eyes that showed 
she had been weeping. There were gatherings in the 
town halls and in the churches and school houses all 
over the land. The newspapers were read hurriedly 
and anxiously. 

And when little Robert looked up earnestly into his 
Grandmamma s face and asked, " Why does Mamma 
not eat her breakfast ? " Grandmamma replied, " Your 
Papa is going away, my dear ;" and when little Robert 
persisted by saying, " But Papa goes to New York 
every year, and Mamma does not sit and stare out of 
the window, and forget to eat her breakfast." Then 


Mamma would turn solemnly around and say, " Robert, 
my boy, Papa is going to the war, and may never come 
back to us. But you and I must be brave about it 
and help him get ready." And if Robert answered, 
" Why is he going to the war? Why does he not stay 
at home with us ? Doesn t he love us any more ? " 
then Mamma would draw her boy to her and, putting 
her arms around him, and looking into his eyes, she 
would say, " Yes, my darling, he loves us, but he must 
go. Our country needs him, and you and I must be 
proud that he is ready to do his duty." Then Robert 
would go away to his play, wondering what it all 
meant, just as you would have wondered if you had 
been there. 

Soon the Papas and Uncles, and even some of the 
Grandfathers, put on soldiers uniforms, and drilled in 
the streets with guns over their shoulders, and bands 
of music played military music, and the drums beat, 
and crowds of people collected on the street corners, 
and there were more speeches, and more flags, and 
banners, and stir, and excitement. And nothing else 
was talked of but the war, the war, the terrible war. 

Then came the marching away of the soldiers to the 
railway stations, and then the farewells and cheers and 
waving of handkerchiefs and the playing of patriotic 
airs by the bands of music, and much more confusion 
and excitement and good-by kisses and tears than I 
could tell you of. 

Then came the long, long days of waiting and pray 
ing in the homes to which fathers and brothers no 
longer came, and silent watching for letters, and 


anxious opening of the newspapers, and oftentimes the 
little children felt their Mamma s tears drop on their 
faces as she kissed them good-night their dear 
Mamma who so often had sung them to sleep with 
her gay, happy songs, what did it all mean? They 
could not tell. 

And all this time the fathers, brave men as they 
were, had been marching down to the war. Often 
times they slept on the hard ground with only their 
army blankets wrapped around them, and the stars to 
keep watch over them, and many a day they had 
nothing to eat but dry bread and black coffee, because 
they had not time to cook more, and sometimes they 
had no breakfast at all because they must be up by 
daybreak and march on, even if the rain poured down, 
as it sometimes did, wetting them through and 
through. What were such hardships when their coun 
try was in danger? 

Then came the terrible, terrible battles, more awful 
than anything you ever dreamed of. Men were shot 
down by the thousands, and many who did not lose 
their lives had a leg shot off, or an arm so crushed 
that it had to be cut off. Still they bravely struggled 
on. It was for their beloved country they were fight 
ing, and for it they must be willing to suffer, or to die. 

Then a hundred thousand more soldiers were called 
for, and then another hundred thousand, and still the 
bloody war continued. For four long years it lasted, 
and the whole world looked on, amazed at such cour 
age and endurance. 

Then the men who had not been killed, or who had 


not died of their sufferings, came marching home again, 
many, alas, on crutches, and many who knew that they 
were disabled for life. But they had saved their coun 
try! And that was reward enough for their heroic 
hearts. Though many a widow turned her sad face 
away when the crowd welcomed the returning soldiers, 
for she knew that her loved one was not with them, 
and many little children learned in time that their dear 
fathers would never return to them. 

War is such a terrible thing that it makes one s 
heart ache to think of it. 

Then by and by the people said, " Our children must 
grow up loving and honoring the heroic men who gave 
their lives for their country." So in villages and 
towns, and cities, monuments were built in honor of 
the men who died fighting for their country. And one 
day each year was set apart to keep fresh and green 
the memory of the brave soldiers, and it has been 
named " DECORATION DAY," because on this day 
all the children, all over the land, are permitted to go 
to the graves of the dead soldiers and place flowers 
upon them. 



The rat-a-tat of the drums and the dauntless voice 
of the fife began to awaken the quiet streets early in 

1 From Lippincott s Magazine, January- June, 1907. 


the morning. Little bands of Grand Army men, stray 
cavalry squads, ambitious patriotic citizens on the way 
to their armories to don their military dress, crossed 
and recrossed the city, all bent on being early at the 
starting-point of the Memorial Day parade. 

Adam Roth, brought to his window by the insistent 
call of the fifes, raised his eyes to the cloudless blue 
of the spring sky and then let them shift back uneasily 
to his shabby room. 

He was old. He was poor. The strength of his 
life was gone. His whole personality marked him as 
a failure, a failure that had taken the honest man-to 
man look from his eyes and left only a wavering, 
frightened, almost crafty glance in its stead. His bent 
shoulders had long ago given up their effort to square 
themselves against the world, and the knotted hand 
that smoothed back his thin gray hair trembled dis 

As the sounds died away, Adam went and stood 
beside the bed. On it was laid the full uniform of a 
Zouave, discolored with the smoke of many battles, 
ragged and worn with the stress of weary marches. 
Near one shoulder a faded stain spoke of a wound re 
ceived at Alexandria. 

Adam looked long on this uniform, and then, brush 
ing away a mist from before his eyes, he whispered 
the name " Dan ! " as he sat down beside the clothes 
and passed his hand over them with a caressing 

No, Dan would wear them no more. Dan, the brave 
brother who had first donned them in 61, who had 
with unabated love and energy and pride worn them 


on every Memorial Day since the first, had gone to the 
great " Assembly," and only Adam was left. 

And Adam ! There was no part for him in all these 
half pleasant, half sad reunions, these enthusiastic 
parades through the great city, these glorious awaken 
ings of memories of deeds well done in the past. That 
was what ate into his soul and blotted out the light in 
his face. He had been a coward coward! In those 
days, when the uniform before him had been a bright 
red, and the gun, leaning against the foot of the bed, 
had sparkled and shone, he had failed to answer the 
bugle call of his country. He had seen his brother 
volunteer, imbued with the spirit that creates heroes, 
but he himself had felt the black hand of fear clutch 
his heart and strike at the very roots of his life. 
What use to fight against that name of " coward " ! 
In truth, he had not fought; he had let it sweep over 
him, engulf him, ruin him. 

Again the rat-a-tat of the drums. The man on the 
bed lifted his head. Oh, to feel just once Dan s sim 
ple love for his flag, the glow of patriotism, the thrill 
of war that trembled a faint, hallowed echo on this 
day! To feel, if such were possible, all these things 
that had been denied him in his youth just to feel 
them once before he too went to that dim place where 
the Stars and Stripes and all the other banners of 
the world are furled in everlasting peace ! 

The sounds in the street below grew louder, and 
the sun streamed into the room, sending a sudden riot 
to Adam s heart. The veins in his temples throbbed 
like ceaseless threshing machines, separating all the 
chaff of his long life of failure and cowardice from 


this strange, burning prayer that sprang up within 
him, that he might once, only once, go forth in the uni 
form of the country he loved, to march behind the flag 
he had failed to protect, to be an American soldier ! 

He found himself taking off his coat with shaking 
hands, and, almost before he realized it, he was hur 
rying into the uniform, talking to himself, and it, the 
while, in frightened whispers. 

" There, now, Dan s gone, but you shall go out into 
the sunlight as you always have, and the people will 
cheer when you come along." He was having a great 
deal of trouble with the rusty old leggings, but he got; 
them on at last. 

" And I shall be there, marching in Dan s place. 
They will never know, nobody will know but I shall 
be there where I should have been long ago, with the 
men who were brave in their youth, and who fought 
for their flag their flag. Oh, my God! I love it as 
much as they did ! " 

He dusted the moth-eaten fez and put it on his 
head. The worn tassel fell over his ear, and he tossed 
it back with a new, free fling of his head. The mantle 
of Dan seemed truly to have fallen upon him, bringing 
with it the spirit of 61. 

He went down into the street, Dan s rifle across his 
shoulder, his Zouave jacket lending strength and erect- 
ness to his weary back. 

A man leading two little boys by the hand pointed 
him out to the children. " There goes one of those 
grizzly old fighters, boys. I tell you they did great 
work ! " The words reached Adam, and sent a gleam 
to his eyes. 


The streets were becoming crowded. He threaded 
his way among the people, conscious of the looks that 
were cast toward him, the small boys that followed at 
his heels, adoring and reverent. He had no shame 
because of his masquerade. He had no wish to de 
fraud. It was simply that now, at this late day, he 
felt he must don the badge of his country s service. 

He hurried on, not knowing where he was going. 

" I ve made a mistake ! " he cried to himself. " I ve 
made a mistake! Every boy in those days may have 
had his moment of fear, of weakness. Even Dan may 
have known this moment. But I believed I must be a 
coward, I never tried to conquer my dread, my terror, 
at the thought of going into battle. Now I see that 
it was a mistake. My life is gone, my opportunity is 
lost, but I want to march behind the flag just once, I 
want to " 

He never knew how far he had walked when sud 
denly, at the corner of a street, he was brought to a 
stop by a compact body of people. He started to push 
his way through, and the crowd fell back a little at 
sight of his uniform. A policeman came and helped 
make a path for him to the outer edge of the crowd. 

Then he knew where he was. He saw the lines of 
silent people on each side of the avenue, and the crash 
of a military band sounded in his ears. The parade 
was passing. He stood for a long time and watched 
it. A space, a lull, then a fife-and-drum corps swung 
up the avenue. Adam grasped his gun with nervous, 
tense ringers. The men wore the familiar baggy red 
trousers, the short jacket, the jaunty little cap. The 
drums had passed. The thinning lines of veterans 


followed, some out of step, some lame, some white 
and feeble, some with empty sleeves dangling at their 
sides. Rusty, dusty, and old they marched along, 
and in their midst the flags, nothing but shreds and 
strings of silk, riddled and shot away until only a few 
brave ribbons remained clinging to their staffs. Hats 
were lifted as they passed, hearts swelled and trem 
bled, and above " When Johnny Comes Marching 
Home " rose a cheer that held in its depths that great 
anthem that rises in our breasts for those who have 
done their duty wherever they have seen it, under any 
flag, for any principle, so long as they had such love 
and faith that they would lay down their lives for it, 
if need be. 

The cheers lasted, the straggling ranks went on. 
They were the Zouaves. 

With one great throb of his heart Adam stepped 
into the street and swung into line. 

On and on! How natural it seemed to keep step 
to that simple call of the fife, that short command of 
the drum! The rifle grew light upon Adam s shoul 
der. He was on the end of the line. The man next to 
him glanced in his direction, and his face whitened. 

Dan Roth ! Surely old Dan Roth was dead ! The 
whole post had heard of it nearly a year ago. Who, 
then, was this silent, mysterious figure, springing sud 
denly from the crowd and joining them? Who was 
this old, pale Zouave who had Dan s form, Dan s head, 
with his long, thin locks; Dan s features save for a 
strange, unreal expression? Was he himself so near 
the solving of the Great Mystery that this silent mes 
senger was already at his elbow ? The veteran, under 


the influence of a strange fear, moved farther from 

On they went. The rhythm of marching feet, the 
stirring music, the fluttering handkerchiefs, and the 
ripple of applause all lent their enchantment to this 
stolen hour. Adam Roth s years were dropping from 
him ; his eyes flashed with the long-denied fire of en 

The parade seemed to halt. He glanced at the man 
next to him to seek the reason when the order for 
" Rest ! " rang down the street. He let his gun rattle 
to the pavement, and tightened his red sash a little. 
There was something so real in this jesture, some 
thing so human in the way he mopped his forehead, 
that his neighbor came closer to him. 

" Who are you ? " asked the man. 

Adam wavered a moment before he answered. The 
simple query blotted out his cherished dream ; perhaps 
it would make the continuance of his march impossi 
ble. But finally he turned and answered : 

" Dan Roth s brother." 

Suddenly he felt the silent encouragement of a hand 
shake. The veteran meant to be his friend. Again 
the command of " Forward march ! " came to them, 
and they were off once more, this time flashing warm, 
triumphant, into Riverside Drive. The long march 
would soon be over now. They were to stop at the 
Soldiers Monument for Memorial Day exercises, the 
Zouaves to constitute a guard of honor. The old sol 
dier next to him had told him this. 

The rest seemed unreal, more unreal even than all 
that had gone before, but finally Adam found himself 


on the approach to the monument, with his eyes divided 
between the sparkling river that flowed past him to the 
bay, and the sea of faces that swayed below him. 

He heard the speaker of the day, a bronzed old gen 
eral, begin his oration. He heard the flights of 
eulogistic praise for those who had fought on both 
sides of the great conflict words all spelling the name 
of " Dan " ; words meant for every man there but him 
self a coward, who even here at the very last was 
proving himself an impostor. 

Beside him stood the color-bearer, holding aloft the 
tattered glory of the regiment. It seemed that the 
poor shreds of silk had twined themselves tenderly 
around his heart in divine forgiveness for his denial 
of them in the days gone by. The words of the 
orator floated on the quivering air, and the cannon 
boomed from the gunboat in the river; but all sounds 
now seemed to come to Adam from a great distance. 
He was aflame with the spirit of devotion; the dark 
ened lamp of patriotism had been lighted anew in him, 
and in the whole world there was nothing else. He 
dimly wondered if everyone felt as he. It seemed that 
they must; there could be no one now in this broad 
land who did not feel the thrill of the moment. 

Presently Adam s kindling eyes fell upon a man 
among the crowd of spectators, a man whose haggard 
face and twitching body marked him apart. Rage, 
wild, unreasoning rage at fate, cried out from all his 
features. The collar tightened up about his throat, 
and the hat half pulled down over his forehead, gave 
him a sinister look. With some fascination Adam 
noticed that his eyes, too, were fastened upon the flag, 


or all that was left of it. But what a gaze ! In the 
tortured fastness of his heart Adam knew that he had 
never looked on it as did this man. He had failed, 
trembled, tried to draw his eyes away where he could 
not see its tingling red, its unsullied blue, its accusing 
stars that gazed down on him and saw only a 
dastard. But this man! His glance was a menace, 
his look burnt with the hatred of one whose hand is 
forever set against the insignia of law and loyalty. 
Adam had heard of men of this kind. Some of them 
had even tried to draw him, poor failure that he was, 
into their ranks, but he had been too timid to join them. 
To-day, however, he was a soldier, a Zouave, a guard 
of honor, a defender of the flag against just such 
enemies as these. 

The ceremonies were drawing to a close. The silent 
heroes in blue and gray had had their measure of 
praise meted out to them, when a bugler stepped for 
ward and played the first bar of the " Star Spangled 
Banner." There was a shout, a sudden concerted 
movement of the crowd to get a little nearer the 
bugler, as the long notes rang out. From his higher 
place Adam saw the man whom he had been watching 
push his way to the edge of the crowd, directly facing 
the flag. His face was darker than ever, with an im 
measurable hatred. He sneered as he looked at the 
Zouaves standing gaunt and rugged about the great 
monument that had been raised to the memory of their 
brothers. The people were singing now. The man 
laughed. Above the voice of palpitating youth and 
earnest age Adam heard it, and clenched his hand at 
his side. What did this man mean to do? Such wild- 


ness, such enmity, would not go unsatisfied. The 
man s hand went to his pocket. Adam stood tense, 
watching his every movement. Again the man looked 
at the flag the flag that was almost shot away, the 
flag that perhaps the man argued had been carried 
aloft on the battlefield at a frightful and needless cost, 
while a calm government sat back and said, " Let the 
slaughter go on." Was that, questioned Adam, that 
the man was thinking? Adam took a step nearer the 
standard-bearer, whose dim eyes were ignorant of 
danger. Adam seemed to feel in some intuitive way 
what this poor, frantic creature below meant to do. 
But he must not be allowed to do it he must not! 
Those smoky, stained old shreds of silk must not 
feel a wound from the hand of a disloyal son. 

The man s arm shot out. Something gleamed in the 
sunshine, something sang in the air above the words 
" in triumph shall wave," and an old Zouave stumbled 
and fell forward upon the white stones. 

The wild disorder of a moment was soon quelled. 
A line of red-capped soldiers were drawn around the 
base of the monument. A little group moved toward 
the standard-bearer, who stood looking down at the 
prostrate figure at his feet, not forgetting that he was 
still on duty. 

The commander of the post stooped over the fallen 
man and lifted his head. The man was a stranger 
to him. He looked at a Zouave standing near, silently 
questioning him. 

" He pushed in front of Peterson, sir, just as that 
scoundrel fired. He tried to grasp the flag, sir. I 
guess he saw what the fellow aimed at." 


Still the commander looked at the speaker, the man 
who had marched all the way beside Adam. 

"Who is he?" continued the officer. "And what 
is he doing here? He is not one of my men." 

The old Zouave took his ragged cap from his head. 

" He was Dan Roth s brother. We have all heard 
of him he was the boy who wouldn t join in 61. But 
to-day he he " 

The old man knelt down beside Adam. Just below 
the dim stain on the shoulder of Dan s jacket, the stain 
which marked that day at Alexandria, there was a new, 
fresh one. The heart that lay beneath it was at peace. 


The days are dead of bitter fray, of red despair and black 

The blessed years speed on their way, the years that bring 

Awhile the livid scars we note of biting sword and rending 

Awfi-ile there rises in the throat the sob for those who heed 

it not; 
Awhile the remnant still we see that lessens with the seasons 

And then how long till they and we are unremembered, 


Lights out! The tragedy is done; the curtain falls; the play 
ers cease 

Their warlike parts, and here begun behold the Passion-Play 
of Peace! 

Reveille sound! New pageants come; new war-worn knights 
are marching home: 

With trumpets blare and roll of drums, a triumph tis of 
ancient Rome. 

Yet surely tis a little thing and meet to do, so, while we 

Let us bow down remembering a Mother mourns her lost 

What though the word from Eastern isles tells that her new 
est ministers 

Have won fresh battles? Tho she smiles on those, these 
too these too are hers! 

Here at the revel s highest tide, before the conquered over 

She pauses, pale, to turn aside and cast one flower more for 

Yea, all are hers and what a host! Through half the world 
they mark her way, 

Or bleaching on the China coast, or torn and toss d in South 
ern bay. 



On many a scattered field they lie, from lonely heights call 

out to her, 

In alien waters glad to die, the sea their shifting sepulchre. 
We smile again in peace to greet the servient savage, hold 

our head 
Above the clouds of dawn our feet trampling upon our 

brothers, dead! 

My country, hark! On every hand thou seest thy work and 
find st it good 

No, Goddess, no: each inch of land bought with a fallen sol 
dier s blood! 

The lover, father, brother, son, have ransomed thee through 
all the years; 

Wan boys have pa-id thy martyrdom, thy smile is bought with 
women s tears. 

Listen, my Mother, tis the mouth thy bursting breasts have 
ever fed, 

Prom East and West, from North and South: "Give back 
our dead! Give back our dead! " 

Nay, peace! They would not bring thee pain, howe er their 
wildest woe be heard: 

And when thou needest lives again, their hearts are ready 
say the zvord. 

Gladly we heap the sacrifice, but though we serve unmurmur 
ing ly, 

Remember, Freedom is our price, since men must die that 
men be free; 

That is thy pledge, by peace or war, to those who sleep upon 
the ground 

Their blood had bought from shore to shore, until the last 
reveille sound.